


The End of Magic

by desastrista



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Magic, Non-Western Fantasy Settings, Original Slash, Slavery, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desastrista/pseuds/desastrista
Summary: Kadehir is a city built on magic, but what happens when magic itself starts to disappear?Mahir is a slave who brings his master Ahmad, an aspiring magician, to Kadehir for a magical education. However, when Ahmad lifts a mysterious curse placed on the head of one of the oldest families in the city, the pair will be caught up in intrigue that will force them both to confront their past and which could redefine the future of magic itself.





	1. An Introduction to Kadehir

The morning weather-binding ceremony usually attracted a small crowd to the Palace, but today only a dozen or so people had gathered: the announcement of rain had no doubt kept many inside this morning. Mahir had not been deterred. It was Ahmad's first full day in Kadehir, and he wanted to make sure his master saw the most prominent display of public magic in the city. 

"Really, rain," Ahmad muttered to himself with a hint of disbelief. They were on the edge of the crowd, but a wooden stage had been placed in the courtyard so that was no risk of anyone present missing the ceremony. Ahmad, however, was not looking at the stage; his attention was directed to the sky. The sun had only just risen and a blanket of pale blue sky lay atop the city. There was not a cloud in sight.

"You will see," Mahir promised. He was surprised to find himself actually excited to see the weather-binding. It was considered too common an activity for most well-to-do Kadehirden, and Stand magicians regarded it as little more than a routine bureaucratic chore. But standing here now with Ahmad, Mahir was seeing it with new eyes. 

Ahmad started to say something, but he stopped the minute the first Mucevhed crossed the stage. The magician's slave looked to be just younger than Mahir, probably around seventeen or so, and dressed in the usual uniform for his position: a plain cap, a linen overcoat in muted colors, a leather collar, and the white sash that marked one who served a full magician. In another lifetime, Mahir had worn the same. Now being back in Kadehir, he had managed to collect everything again except the last item, which could only be given out by the Stand.

The crowd quieted down briefly as the boy took his spot at the back of the stage, but then the men assembled realized the magicians themselves were not there and resumed talking. Ahmad, however, still seemed dumbstruck by the sight. Mahir watched him out of the corner of his eyes. This was the first time that Ahmad was seeing a Mucevhed that was not Mahir.

"I never thought to see anyone else with --” Ahmad finally started, still half in a daze. He fumbled for the word, and finally asked, "How do you say, what you have on your skin?"

"The markings," Mahir provided the Kadehirden word, which Ahmad repeated to himself under his breath twice. Ahmad was a quick study with language; he hadn't known any Kadehirden when he had found Mahir two years ago. Mahir folded his arms together, letting his fingers graze against the jewel-like texture of one of the several starbursts that dotted his skin. The markings were the distinguishing feature of a Mucevhed: they appeared at birth, and the Stand's scholars believed them to be the physical manifestation of all the magic that Mucevheden held within their bodies.

Mucevheden were fountains of magic. That was why their masters were magicians, as only magicians could harness that energy and bring it into the world.

A hush fell over the crowd suddenly. Mahir turned his attention away from Ahmad back towards the stage. There were now four Mucevheden lined up in a row. Mahir started to frown. That couldn't be right -- and yet it must be, because there were four magicians walking up to the stage. It was easy to count the distinctive white turbans of the Stand. As the crowd watched, the men climbed up to the stage and without saying a word formed a circle facing each other a few steps in front of their slaves.

"The number of magicians here is unusual," Mahir whispered under his breath to Ahmad. "The last time I saw a weather-binding, it only took three.”

It was said that at the founding of Kadehir, it had only taken one magician to set the weather for the entire city. But everyone knew magic these days was not as powerful as it had been then. Mahir was just surprised to see it weakening so much even in the last few years.

He might have said something to that effect to Ahmad, but he was cut off by a loud gasp that went through the crowd. The magicians had held out their hands straight with their hands formed into fists: in each fist, a bright white light flickered. As the crowd watched, the men moved their hands apart and the light floated gently in midair where their hands had been. When the magicians finally finished drawing a circle, they unclenched their hands and dropped their arms to the side. The circle of light stayed where the men had conjured it. It glowed faintly, the way magic always did when it had been made visible. 

With the circle formed, the magicians leaned to look over it and started to move their hands back and forth in an intricate pattern. Mahir knew from past experience that this was the part of the weather-binding where the magicians were no longer the most interesting part. 

"You might want to look up," he muttered to Ahmad, who did so almost at once. Gray clouds had started to gather, first right above the magicians’ circle, but then slowly they unraveled and began to extend further out. A drop of rain fell and landed on Mahir's nose. 

He couldn't help but sneak another look at the Mucevheden. They were the source of this magic, and Mahir knew from experience that having such a large amount of magic drawn from yourself could sting. But these Mucevheden were well-trained: all four faces looked past the crowd without betraying any discomfort.

"How long for this spell?" Ahmad asked.

"They bind the weather for the city itself, and maybe a few miles beyond. It will take about twenty minutes." More and more raindrops fell against the stone pavement of the courtyard, and a few people left to take shelter. It would rain for a few hours in the morning and clear before noon. According to all the town criers, that was the Palace's decision for today and tomorrow. The Emperor decided what weather was necessary to maintain prosperity and harmony, and today Kadehir needed rain. "Should we find shelter?" 

"That must take so much magic," Ahmad whispered in awe, his gaze still on the magicians and the circle they had made. Now that the rain had started in earnest, the Mucevheden finally moved from their silent positions at the back of the stage. They grabbed palm leaves that had been left on the stage and held the leaves over their masters’ heads. The magicians themselves continued to move their hands in patterns Mahir could not discern, weaving the clouds above. It seemed with great reluctance that Ahmad finally tore his eyes away. “Do you really believe I can do magic like that?” 

Ahmad spoke with more earnesty than a Kadehirden man would normally display in public. The tips of Mahir's ears reddened, and he almost smiled. “Of course,” he answered. “The Stand will train you to do this and more.” If Kadehir was the center of magic for the known world, the Stand was the center of magic in Kadehir. It was the school that produced all the magicians who would fill the ranks of the Palace staff and the Imperial Army. Once Ahmad was accepted into the Stand, he would receive a magical education that was unlike anything he could learn anywhere else.

All it would take was an introduction. The Stand required a nomination before they would train anyone, and only a full magician could nominate a prospective student. Because the magical families of Kadehir were so insular, this was usually considered a mere formality. Unfortunately, Ahmad lacked any such connections, and until Mahir could find a magician to nominate him, the Stand would not train Ahmad.

Mahir had spent so long trying to think of a way to get this nomination. Even now as the rain started to fall more heavily, Mahir felt his mind wander to consider the magicians he had known. But then Ahmad reached out to hold one of Mahir’s hands. He laced his fingers around Mahir’s own with a small smile.

“Before worrying about the Stand,” Ahmad’s voice was soft. “As you said, let us get out of this rain.”

Mahir felt the blood rush to his face. There were elaborate rules that governed how a Mucevhed and his magician-master could act in public: even holding hands was a mild scandal. He was sure he had told Ahmad this a hundred times. But perhaps Ahmad did not care, or perhaps he knew how much Mahir actually liked holding his hand despite all that: either way, Mahir did not say anything but only gripped Ahmad a little tighter. He nodded and together they walked out of the courtyard and back towards the city itself.

 

 

  
When the rains finally stopped later in the day, Ahmad declared that he wanted to walk around one of the city's markets. He said he had a plan.

“I will go to the people in the market and ask if they want any magic performed. If I do enough magic, I will grab the attention of the Stand,” he explained as the two of them walked, and he spoke as if describing the most obvious thing in the world.

In a reversal of custom, Ahmad trailed a few steps behind Mahir. At first, Mahir had tried to object, but Ahmad pointed out that Mahir should lead because he knew the way to the market better. There was a certain truth to that: even though it seemed a lifetime ago that he had last been in Kadehir, Mahir's feet still knew their way to the Scholar's Market. It was north of the Palace, and got its name from the great volume of paper that was sold there. Some of the oldest families in Kadehir, magician and bureaucrat alike, lived atop the hills that overlooked the northern shore and preferred to send their servants to this market.

"I, well --," Mahir started, trying to think of a polite way to phrase his objections to Ahmad's plan. Ahmad had spent the last two years as a magician-for-hire in Bak Liwahar and had made a good livelihood doing so, but things were more complicated in the capital of the Empire itself than they had been in the Wakamiri provincial capital. 

"You hate the plan," Ahmad said. It was not a question. From someone else, it might have been an accusation: Ahmad just sounded vaguely amused. "Why?" 

Mahir took a deep breath before he responded. He had grown used to contradicting Ahmad, but even a few hours in Kadehir were reminding him that this was a new habit, and not one the Stand would tolerate. But Ahmad had asked, so Mahir would answer. "Magicians were so rare in Bak Liwajar that no one knew what to expect from a magician. In Kadehir, a magician is expected to be trained by the Stand, or else he must be a fraud or contracting with evil spirits.” The Stand tolerated what was frequently deemed lesser magic: fortune-telling, amulets to guard against illness, that kind of thing. Popular with ordinary citizens, but frequently the object of derision by actual magicians. 

"So, you say if I start magic outside the Stand, they think I am cursed, somehow?" Ahmad's frustration caused the foreign words to slip on his tongue. Mahir stopped walking and turned around to look again at Ahmad. "I'm not angry, Mahir," Ahmad said quickly. The side of his mouth lifted in an attempt to convey sincerity. "I just -- do not understand. If the Stand is suspicious of magic by outsiders, how can it find magicians?" 

"They look for children who display signs of magic," Mahir answered, and when Ahmad's gaze turned skeptical, he admitted, "Those children are mostly from the families of magicians. But it has happened that families will petition the Stand to recognize their child's ability." The words did not have quite the effect he thought they might: Ahmad looked hopeful, and Mahir was certain he knew what Ahmad might say next. He hastened to add, "In my experience, even those petitions go better for the family when there is a Stand magician to grant the family an introduction." 

"So that is what you want me to have," Ahmad said. Mahir nodded. 

"And you have no idea how to get me an introduction," Ahmad continued, his lip quirking with amusement. Mahir nodded again, this time with greater reluctance.

Ahmad paused to look around. They had arrived at the edge of the market. It was not as crowded as it had likely been earlier in the day or as crowded as it would be just before the night fell. But there was still a fair number of people walking between the brightly decorated stalls. Mahir turned to look at the crowd, hoping he might see a flash of either a white turban or sash. If he happened to meet someone with a connection to the Stand here, he might be able to make up a story to explain Ahmad -- but there was no one he could see. That was not surprising. A Stand magician would almost certainly rather send a servant to the market than make the journey himself or send his Mucevhed.

“Do you recognize anyone here?” Ahmad asked. Mahir shook his head. He looked back at Ahmad and saw the man running a hand through his beard thoughtfully. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes that Mahir distrusted. “Well, until we find someone you recognize, we can try my way.”

Mahir was too polite to let out an exasperated sigh. But some of his weariness must have shown in his eyes, because Ahmad let out a playful laugh. 

"You know I am right, Mahir." 

"Of course, master," Mahir said, in his most polite Kadehiri. He embellished with a small bow, too shallow for anyone from Kadehir itself but enough to make Ahmad groan. 

"Don't be like that, Mahir. Let me savor for once my victory of being right in this city." 

 

 

"Do you have need of a magician?" 

Ahmad walked up to one of the men with a stall near the entrance of the market -- an older man, with a collection of fruit laid out before him. The man looked confused. 

"If you're looking for magicians, the Stand is further south," the man answered back, speaking slowly and talking too loudly, as if Ahmad might be hard of hearing. Mahir watched Ahmad nod once before turning away and giving Mahir a small shrug. 

Next, Ahmad went up to a girl who was too young for braids and who was selling flowers from a basket that must have been half her height. He repeated his question, and she pointed to where Mahir stood a few paces away.

"That man's master can help you, if you're looking for a magician." 

"I'm not looking for a magician," Mahir heard Ahmad try to clarify. "Are you looking for one?" 

The girl shook her head. "No. All I want it someone to buy my flowers." 

Ahmad gave her a copper coin and walked back with a crocus in hand. He handed it to Mahir. "For you," he said. Mahir smiled. Sometimes on holidays, magicians gave flowers to their Mucevheden. It happened mostly when the Mucevheden were still boys; now twenty one, Mahir was a little too old for a flower in his hair. But the crocus still made him smile, particularly since he was confident that he had never told Ahmad about the custom of giving flowers. Mahir tucked the stem of the plant behind his ear.

"Am I asking the wrong question in Kadehirden?" Ahmad switched back to Wakamiri to ask. Mahir shook his head. 

"You've said it correct twice. No one expects the question, though, and they only hear what they expect.” 

"The girl didn't even think we were traveling together,” Ahmad grumbled. Ahmad was always reluctant to call himself Mahir's master. To Mahir, who thought a Mucevhed without a master was something pitiable, this attitude did not make a lot of sense. But he kept that thought to himself.

"I don't think there's ever been a foreign magician in Kadehir since the city was founded. I have certainly never heard of one. You'll be the first." 

Ahmad shook his head. "If I am ever let into the Stand. Let me try again.”

He asked three more times. Once, the seller simply ignored Ahmad. The second tried again to direct him to the Stand. 

It was the third who responded, "Let me guess, you have some talismans that you would like to sell." It was a fishmonger's wife who said that. She was a small woman, with her hair pinned up and half hidden under a scarf like the women did in the near-western provinces. Mahir watched her look Ahmad over skeptically.

"Talismans?" Ahmad tripped over the word. Mahir had been standing a few feet away: he wondered whether Ahmad wanted him to step in to help translate .

"Foreigners, they come to Kadehir with all these stories of enchanted necklaces or shirts woven with spells that will protect their wearer from harm. I don't see people like you this far north too often. Usually none of the families up here would spare a second thought for those things. But I know someone who might be interested in what you are selling.”

“I'm not -- never mind. Who do you talk about?”

The woman held out an expectant hand. “Three coins. I swear it will be your worth your while.” Ahmad reached for his wallet while Mahid took a few steps closer. He wondered what kind of story this woman might try to pass off as the truth. 

"Nadide janum has been buying talismans, Kadehirden and foreign alike. I know a few people who have found her to have an open purse when they come calling." 

Ahmad had started to thank the woman, but Mahir interrupted. "Why would a woman of such connection need a talisman?" he asked. He did not recognize the name, but the title denoted a woman of some respectability. It would not make sense for a woman like that to be chasing lesser magic.

The woman responded to Mahir with a disapproving huff. "Is your master asking for gossip?" she asked. "Because he must really lack any connections to not have heard the news about Ozal bajedi.”

Ahmad's brows raised, although the woman was not looking at him. Mahir kept his face carefully neutral, not wanting to let this woman exactly how correct she happened to be about the subject. "Ozal bajedi, the master of the house, has been dead for three months. His sister Nadide has been looking for any magic that can bring him back.”

"What?" Ahmad looked stunned by the news.

Mahir just scrunched his nose in confusion. “There is no magic that will bring back the dead," He had learned much about magic in the past two years that he had previously thought impossible, but Mahir thought he could still state this fact with some authority. 

"Does it matter?” The woman shrugged. “Until Nadide janum herself realizes this, there will be plenty of opportunities for men like this to try and help her cause." She turned back to Ahmad, "I have not heard your accent in Kadehir before. Perhaps you will have luck, selling her something she has not yet seen." 

"Perhaps," Ahmad echoed. His thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. He turned away from the stall and started to walk away. Mahir followed and when they were out of earshot of the woman Ahmad turned back to him. 

“You seem to know who that woman talked about,” Ahmad said. “Do you think you can find this Nadide janum?”

“I don't recognize her or her brother's name, but I am certain that if I asked around someone will know where we might be able to find her.” Mahir drew in an uncertain breath. “Ahmad, are you sure you want to find this woman?” 

“You said she has good connections, and she is looking for help. I can't raise the dead, but perhaps if I did something else for her, she will help me.” Mahir found himself oddly relieved to hear these words from Ahmad. Ahmad’s magic was different from anything that Mahir had seen in Kadehir, but death-magic was the domain of the Shadow, and while Mahir did not consider himself superstitious, like most people in Kadehir he avoided the seventh god. 

Ahmad made a contemplative noise. “Do you think Nadide janum is a member of the Stand?” 

Mahir shook his head. “The Stand does not allow women in its rank. But if her brother was a magician, she would almost surely know other magicians, and might have some other living male relatives who could be of assistance.”

“Then I must meet her,” Ahmad said. He looked more at peace with the decision than Mahir felt. “If we are lucky, I will be at the Stand by the end of the week."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time ever posting fiction with original characters in a public forum, so I would love to hear any and all feedback! Comments are greatly appreciated and if you prefer tumblr, my ask is always open at http://desastrista.tumblr.com/ask. This is a continuing story so if you want to get notified of future chapter releases, please subscribe.


	2. The Dead Man Wakes

It did not take much asking around the market to get directions to the house of Nadide janum, and it was not much of a surprise when those directions led to the northern shore. The walk was beautiful, as they passed rows of well-tended homes with fruit trees and flowering vines peeking over gates and walls. But the families here were wealthy and they frequently had their own private guards; Mahir and Ahmad were stopped three times and asked what business called them to this neighborhood. Mahir answered each time, explaining that his master wished to call on Nadide janum and offer her his services. The first two guards just waved them along without further comment, but the last guard let them go with a muttered blessing to the Lord and the Mother.

“That was a prayer for her brother, yes?” Ahmad asked when they were a few paces away from the guard.

Mahir hesitated. “I suppose so. It's a prayer for strength and mercy. It isn't the usual prayer for someone who has died recently, although --” A thought occurred to him suddenly, and his footsteps faltered. Ahmad stopped and waited for him to continue. Finally, in a weaker voice, Mahir added, “If Nadide janum’s brother was the master of the house and he died without a son -- maybe without even a wife -- the family affairs might not be quite settled.”

Ahmad looked confused. “What does that mean, not settled?” He had never quite developed the Kadehirden ear for polite euphemism. 

“The family is likely to be torn apart by anyone with a claim,” Mahir switched to Wakamiri for the explanation. 

Ahmad nodded, although he added, with a touch of wounded pride, “I was understanding you fine in Kadehirden.” 

“I know,” Mahir responded right away, still speaking Wakamiri. “But I didn't want to be overheard.” 

Ahmad looked to the left and right. They had left the guard behind. And unlike the crowded streets in much of the rest of the city, the northern shore had the luxury of almost empty roads. There was no one they could see who could be listening. But that wasn't what Mahir had meant when he spoke about being overheard. He knew Kadehir; it was a city that listened, even when you thought you were alone. And if there was the head of an important family that had died without an heir, a lot of very important men would be listening for even the smallest scrap of news. 

A different man might have demanded this explanation or more from Mahir, but Ahmad shrugged. “You would know better than me,” he replied.

Mahir’s shoulders sagged in a release of tension he hadn't been aware that he was carrying. He looked ahead and saw the house on the corner that matched the description he had been given in the marketplace. 

“That is the house of Nadide janum,” Mahir pointed, switching back to Kadehirden.

“Only one family lives there?” Ahmad stuttered. When Mahir nodded, Ahmad muttered, “These houses are so large, I thought they hold four or five families.”

Mahir hid his amusement behind a hand. Ahmad stared at the houses around them with a look somewhere between amazement and disgust. “Why does any one need such a large house? Even the richest people in Bak Liwahar did not live like this." 

“Even the richest men in Bak Liwahar look with jealousy at Kadehir." It was a point that Mahir knew well from living as a Mucevhed on the edge of the Empire.

“I think my whole clan could live there,” Ahmad shook his head with a faint laugh.

“If you stay here, I can go make introductions.” Ahmad finally turned his attention away from the house and back towards Mahir. “In a household of this size, a servant will likely open the door. I will explain the situation, he will fetch his master, and then if we are lucky we will be permitted to speak with the lady of the house."

When Ahmad nodded, Mahir walked up the path to the front door of the house. While he was more familiar with these older estates than Ahmad, he had to admit he was still a little bit intimidated by the location. Even when he had lived in Kademir, he could still count on his hands the number of times that he had been to the northern shore. Mahir fixed his skullcap once and then twice and tried to pull out any wrinkles in his overcoat before he finally knocked.

After a minute, a man opened the door. It took all of Mahir's training not to stare. This man was not wearing the neat high-brimmed hat the head of staff should wear, but instead was dressed like the master of the house himself, even if the style of robe he wore had already fallen out of favor by the time Mahir left Kadehir. 

This man frowned at Mahir, his eyes finding the telltale starbursts on his skin..”Well, then, who do you belong to?” he barked out. 

Belatedly, Mahir bowed. “Bajedi,” he started, trying to keep his voice as pleasant as respectful as possible. “My master is here because he has heard Nadide janum has need of a magician.” 

The man clenched his jaw. “I will find my niece,” he said, and without another word walked back into the house. Mahir fought the urge to peak through the open door. No one was coming to ask if perhaps his master would like to come inside or even just to close the door. There was no sign of anyone that Mahir could see. Could such a storied family really be lacking in servants? 

Eventually Mahir did see a woman approaching the door. With the rich fabric of her dress and the flash of gold around her neck and wrist, Mahir guessed this was Nadide herself. She walked quickly, with her uncle trailing a few steps behind. “Mucevhed, tell your master I have no need --” She stopped as she approached. “I do not recognize you. Who is your master?” 

Mahir had always thought he was good at keeping his expression neutral around his betters, but he was having a difficult time hiding his surprise at Nadide janum. She did not pin up her long black hair, but rather kept it loosely tied at her shoulders like a child would. She was old to still be unmarried, and Mahir might have thought her simple, except there was nothing simple in the tone of her voice in the question she had just asked him.

He bowed low again. “My master is called Ahmad ji Musayeib ji Bayhas ji Hazzar Dubbhazhel.” 

Some of the hardness in Nadide's expression left at those words. “That is not a Kadehirden name. Where is he from?” 

“The province of Wakamir, janum.” 

“I don’t even know where that is.” Nadide blinked. “Did you meet him after he travelled to the capital, then? I thought Mucevheden could not leave Kadehir.” Mahir felt his heart skip a beat. He had thought about how he would introduce Ahmad, but he had never expected to answer where he had spent the last two years. He had never expected to be asked such questions. No one asked Mucevheden questions about themselves. 

Nadide showed no patience at his hesitation. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Your master will explain his story in good time if he wants. Is he here?” 

On more familiar territory, Mahir nodded quickly. “He is waiting just outside.” 

“Fetch him then,” she ordered, even as her uncle let out a strangled noise of objection. 

“Are you sure that is wise? A man like that -- from such a distant land -- well, he could not have been trained by the Stand.” 

“Good, then,” Nadide replied coldly. “All the Stand magicians have failed.” She turned back to Mahir, who had hesitated in the face of the man's objection. “Mucevhed, I said to fetch your master. Oh, never mind, he is approaching anyway. Magician!” She called out.

Mahir turned to see Ahmad walking towards them. No doubt he had grown curious when Mahir had dawdled at the doorstep. It was not like Ahmad would demand a formal introduction to a household before he would enter, as other magicians might.

He didn’t even dress like a magician. Mahir watched Nadide’s uncle look over Ahmad and his simple robes. Mahir had advised Ahmad to buy nice linens; Ahmad had said he liked his clothes, which he had had since he was a shepherd. The man said, through gritted teeth, “This cannot be your master, Mucevhed.” 

Ahmad reached the doorway and bowed too low for his station. “Nadide janim,” he said. “May the Seven keep your brother.” 

Nadide recoiled at Ahmad's words. “The Seven do not yet have my brother,” she said sharply. Ahmad looked at Mahir with confusion, but the words were a shock to Mahir too.

“Our deepest apologies, Nadide janum,” Mahir began. “We must have been misinformed. We were told you were seeking help, and that no one at the Stand could help your honored brother --” 

“I am seeking help,” Nadide cut him off. “And no one could help. But my brother is alive, if you were told that was not the case. He is just --” There was a click of jewelry. Her left hand had shaken as she spoke, and she crossed her arms slowly until they were back under control. “Sick.” 

Ahmad and Mahir exchanged a long look. “It is not an illness anyone in Kadehir has seen before,” the uncle added. “My nephew Ozal was a magician himself, and an important man at the Stand. Three months ago, he was struck with this terrible sickness. Another man -- also a magician -- died shortly after. No one is sure if what killed that man was the same thing that plagues my nephew. Perhaps, if so, he is fortunate that he still lives. But we do not know. No one knows what happened. But the Stand has sent many people to try and cure Ozal.”

“And obviously none of the men they sent have succeeded,” Nadide’s expression soured, but she smiled politely when she turned to Ahmad. “So, Ahmad bajedi, do you have any experience in curing ailments?”

“I was a magician-for-hire in Bak Liwahar,” Ahmad responded at once. He added, with less certainty, “I cured a boy who bit by a snake once.”

“Oh, good, he knows how to cure a snake bite,” the uncle muttered, as if Ahmad could not hear him. Mahir saw Ahmad's jaw tighten in frustration. The man turned to his niece and said, in a cajoling tone, “Are you sure it is a good idea to trust this foreigner? What if he makes your brother worse? I have never heard of a magician from outside Kadehir.”

“If there was a Kadehirden magician who could have cured Ozal, he would have been found by now,” Nadide’s nostrils flared impatiently. She tucked back an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and set her shoulders as if she had made a decision. “As for whether this man could make my brother worse -- we have tried everything and it has still been months since Ozal last spoke or walked. His sleep now is closer to death than anything you, I, or anyone at the Stand has ever seen. How exactly do you suppose this man could make things worse?” 

A long silence followed her words. It was Ahmad who finally broke it. “Bajedi, janum, please. Let me see your brother. I will do my best.” 

Nadide gave a small nod. “Ahmad bajedi, please come in. I will show you where my brother rests.”

 

Nadide led them up a grand staircase and down a hallway. There had been no sign of anyone else inside as they walked, and Mahir started to wonder just how empty this big house could be. But at last when Nadide led them through a pair of wide doors, there was a figure who jumped to attention as the four of them entered. It was another Mucevhed, probably a few years older than Mahir, although with a flop of curls that gave him a youthful appearance. The starbursts on his skin were red, while Mahir’s were blue. As the room filled, Mahir could see the Mucevhed standing confused, unsure whether or not to bow. The slightest nod from Nadide and he performed a full bow for Ahmad.

“Oh,” Ahmad said in surprise, and he fumbled a bow back. The other Mucevhed blinked in confusion. 

“It's horrible,” Nadide sighed in agreement, and Mahir realized she was no longer looking at Ahmad or her uncle but had taken a seat on the side of the bed at the center of the room. Her gaze was on the man lying there; she must have thought Ahmad was commenting on him.

It took a moment for Mahir to realize the man was not truly asleep. It felt almost like an intrusion to be in the same room as him. The curtains had been drawn, casting the room in a hazy half-light. The man -- who must have been Ozal -- had been changed into his nightwear and his white turban removed. The only clues about the unnaturalness of his sleep was that he had not stirred at all when four people entered the room, that he breathed a half-beat too slowly, and that Mahir saw the cold dread in Ahmad’s eyes as he turned to look at the man.

“What devils --” Ahmad started. 

“He fell into this state suddenly three months ago, and there has been no change since then. We cannot get him to drink or eat, but he continues to breath and his heart beats as it did when -- as it did before.”

“And he does not age?” 

“No, I don’t think he does. I always found it odd, how his hair has not grown,” the other Mucevhed spoke and then looked abashed for interrupting. No doubt he belonged to the sleeping man. 

“The Stand magicians thought it must be poison. A foreign poison, unlike anything we have seen before. And since my nephew was the secretary to the Ambassador to Vaspahan, and since the other afflicted man, the one who died, was the Ambassador --” 

He left the ending of that sentence open, suggestive. Ahmad ignored the suggestion. “I felt poison in the body before. This is not that. I never saw anything like this, but I can feel what is happening. And I think only magic could do such a horrible thing to magic.” 

Mahir felt his stomach drop at the words. There was a dark possibility in Ahmad’s words. Mahir wondered if Ahmad even knew the full weight of what he said. If this was the work of magic, it had likely been another magician who laid the curse on this man. And considering someone else had died, it was possible that someone else at the Stand had tried to murder the head of one of the oldest and most prominent of Kadehir’s families. 

“What horrible thing do you think is happening?” Nadide asked. Her cheeks had lost their color but there was iron in her voice. 

“It is his magic. It twists inside of him. It keeps him alive -- trapped in a single moment of time. That is why he does not age, does not waste away. But the magic does not want to be like how it is. It attempts to escape, and if it succeeds, that will kill him.” 

Nadide took in a sharp breath, but her uncle scoffed loudly. “That can’t be right. I’m not a magician myself of course, but everyone knows that only Mucevheden have magic. A magician can draw on the magic of a Mucevhed he has bonded with, but a magician has no magic himself --”

Anything else he might have said died in a whisper on his lips when Ahmad moved his hands forward and a white light flickered to life between them. He was drawing on Mahir’s magic, Mahir felt the familiar pull of it. The figure on the bed let out a half-strangled gasp. Mahir flinched, and the light went out. Nadide and the other Mucevhed both leapt forward with a startled noise, leaning over their cursed brother and master. 

“Is he --,” the Mucevhed asked, a painful hope in his voice. 

“He is still asleep,” Nadide said, even as she turned to Ahmad. “Magician, that is more than anyone else has been able to do. Can you try again?” 

Ahmad was holding his hand against the side of his head. “If I untangle the magic inside him, set it back to how it was before, he will wake. But I need to talk with Mahir alone first,” he said, and the strangeness of a magician saying that went unnoticed in the general strangeness of everything else that had happened. 

The two of them walked back out into the hallway. “Are you alright?” Mahir asked, seeing Ahmad still nursing his head. 

“Why don’t you want me to help that man?” Ahmad asked in Wakamiri. Mahir flinched again, but there was no anger in Ahmad’s words. 

“It’s not so much that --” Mahir started, but Ahmad raised an eyebrow and Mahir stopped. 

“I tried to draw on your magic, and you were afraid. You didn’t want me to give me your magic,” he said. “Why?” 

Mahir knew that according to Stand orthodoxy what Ahmad was describing was impossible. Mucevheden could not choose to give or withhold magic. But it was also commonly believed in the Stand that no magicians could be born outside Kadehir and that no Mucevhed could survive for long away from the magic of Kadehir. Mahir and Ahmad were an impossibility talking to an impossibility, and so there was nothing for Mahir to do but tell the truth. 

“For a man of such importance to have something like this happen to him, he must have some powerful enemies indeed. For all we know, whoever did this to him is still out there. And if you help him, they might come for you next.”

Mahir was surprised when Ahmad gave a dismissive huff in response, as if Mahir had suggested tomorrow the sun would rise from the west. “Me? Enemies? I’m no one. Two years ago I herded goats.” 

“And today you might be lifting a curse that no one else in the Stand could.”

“I don’t understand, I saw the weather-binding this morning.” Ahmad looked, to Mahir’s surprise, almost annoyed. “How can those magicians do something so complex and then be clueless about what happened to that man? It should not be that hard to see.” 

Privately, Mahir suspected he knew the reason. What the uncle had said about magicians having no magic of their own was commonly taught in the Stand. Mahir had told Ahmad the same thing, back not long after they had met. Ahmad had nodded politely along before telling Mahir that he was wrong. It had taken a while before he had truly believed Ahmad.

Mahir did not want to provoke another argument with Ahmad about the nature of magic right now, though, and instead he demurred, “You are an unconventional magician.” Ahmad looked skeptical but didn't argue the point further. 

Instead, he said, “Even if this man's enemies come after me, what choice do I have? He is trapped in a terrible existence. His family suffers. If there is something I can do to make things better, I must do it. Please, Mahir, lend me your magic.”

He spoke with a terrible sincerity and humility that had entranced Mahir from the beginning. Mahir could only nod, and Ahmad leaned forward to give him a quick kiss before he turned to go back inside. Mahir followed a few paces behind. 

“Alright,” Ahmad said, as three heads turned back towards him. “Let me try again.”

It was quiet as he raised his hands. Mahir felt the magic flow from him, running out of his mouth and nose like someone had stolen his breath. 

The man on the bed stirred and Nadide screamed.


	3. conversations before nightfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief content warning for this chapter for mentions of sex work

All of Ozal’s limbs felt like they had been carved from stone. He had woken up to a confusion of bodies, his sister crying and throwing her arms around his neck with a carelessness he hadn't seen from her since they were children. Kadim was also on the bed, which wouldn't have been so unusual, but there were tears in his eyes and he kept leaning down to kiss Ozal’s hands. It was when his uncle Berdu stepped forward that Ozal truly began to think he was in the middle of a very strange dream. 

“You didn't tell me you were visiting the city,” Ozal managed to mutter. It felt like there was a layer of ash coating his tongue.

“There is a lot of things I'm going to have to tell you about,” Berdu replied, and then he laughed as if he'd made a particularly good joke. “But first, we should give you a chance to make yourself presentable. You've spent quite long enough in those clothes. Once you're ready, then we can talk.” 

Ozal looked down and saw with a dawning horror that he was still in his nightwear. He opened his mouth to respond, but he was at a loss for words. 

It didn't matter. Berdu was already escorting everyone out of his room. Ozal blinked in surprise as he counted the number of people that had been there: not just his sister and uncle but also what appeared to be a day laborer and some other magician's Mucevhed. What could possibly have brought so many people into his quarters? 

He waited to speak until the crowd had left and Ozal was alone with his Mucevhed. But before he could speak, Kadim sank onto the bed next to him and brought Ozal's right hand to his lips. “I am so glad you're back,” Kadim muttered against his fingers.

Ozal just stared. “How long have I been asleep?”

 

 

Kadim explained the full story while helping Ozal dress. The strange heaviness with which he had woken up still had not left him, and after only a few minutes he could barely lift his arms to assist Kadim. Ozal had never felt so exhausted. He had the unpleasant sensation that his insides were all charred, although there were no visible signs of harm on his body. He hoped some of this fatigue was simply his mind struggling to make sense of what Kadim was telling him.

“How could that have happened to me?” he finally asked. 

“I'm not sure even the magician who cured you knows that,” Kadim answered. 

“And where has he gone to?” 

“You saw him leave,” There was the faintest smile on Kadim's face when he answered, and Ozal wondered why until he continued, “The man with the short beard and the plain turban.” 

Ozal frowned. “That man was a magician?”

“And somehow that is not the strangest thing about today,” Kadim let out a huff of amusement as he gave Ozal’s sash a final pull. Ozal tried to lean down to find Kadim's lips with his own, but his knee buckled and if Kadim had not been there to catch him he would have fallen. As it were, Kadim gently helped seat him back upon the side of the bed.

“You'll recover with time,” Kadim said. There was a silent question in his voice, and Ozal nodded. He did not want to consider the alternative. 

“I need to speak with my uncle. And the magician who cured me, too.” Ozal looked over at the door. He had never given much thought to its distance from the bed before, but now it seemed cursedly far away. “It will be unusual, but perhaps these men will consent to call on me here.” 

Kadim did not say anything at first, although his pursed lips made his feelings clear enough. Ozal added, gently but firmly, “I do not have the time to dawdle in recovery. There are things I need to discuss.”

The words did not seem to wholly convince Kadim, but nonetheless he asked, “Who do you want called in first?” 

“My uncle,” Ozal answered. 

 

 

Berdu refused a cushion but insisted on standing. But while Kadim stood at attention near the side of the bed, Berdu paced impatiently in front of Ozal. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked Ozal, his hand running through his long beard as he paced. 

“The best I have felt in three months, evidently,” Ozal answered wryly. Berdu laughed, but it was a perfunctory sound. 

“What is the last thing you remember?” he pressed. 

Ozal cast his memory back. There was a haze when he thought back, and yet -- “I was with Eraydin ajendi in the Inner Courtyard. There was a matter of the Stand we wanted to discuss.” Ozal watched the Berdu’s expression fall. “Kadim has told me the news. He really has passed?” 

“I was not here when it happened, but your sister tells me that you and Eryadin bajedi were both found unresponsive in the Inner Sanctum. It caused quite the commotion, as you can imagine. An attack on an ambassador and his secretary? In front of the god-trees themselves? The situation only worsened when the Seven took him only a few days later. Thankfully in their mercy they spared you.” 

“I do not know by what logic I should survive and Eryadin not. He was a good man and the better magician,” Even hearing it twice now, the news did not feel real. Ozal had been Eryadin’s personal secretary, and Eryadin had been preparing him for an even higher post in the Stand. “That I was not there for his passing or even his funeral --” Ozal sighed. “Do you know if Nadide went there in my stead?”

“I am not sure. She might have.” Although Ozal was grateful to hear that, Berdu looked displeased. “It would have been a minor scandal for an unattended woman to attend a funeral.”

“There is more of a tolerance for things like that in the city,” Ozal tried to word his response tactfully. Berdu lived with his wife and three children on a villa that was about a ten day journey to Kadehir. Sometimes Ozal found Berdu a touch provincial. He also knew his sister; Berdu would have grated on her.

The noise of polite disbelief he made in response to Ozal’s explanation spoke volumes. “I tried to broach the subject of marriage with your sister during your illness.”

“I doubt she took it well,” Ozal replied dryly. 

“She said that she would not consider a marriage -- and these are her words now -- until either you were back on your feet or under ground.” 

“Now that our father has passed, it does fall to me to see Nadide married. And I was not exactly in a position to do so.” The weight of his obligations pressed against his chest. He was a magician of the Stand and the master of his house; people depended on him. And he had been as good as dead for three months. There was much he had to make up for. 

“But that's exactly the problem!” Berdu sputtered. He stopped his pacing to stare at Ozal, as if in accusation. “A woman cannot sign a contract. An unmarried woman cannot inherit. And for a woman of means there is little opportunity for respectable employment. The Stand stopped paying your salary, citing illness. Nadide had to let the household go.”

“She let the household go?” Ozal repeated in a daze. “My salary has always been enough -- and there was supposed to be a pension --”

“A pension goes to a man's dependents after he dies, and you were still alive. As for a salary, the Stand appointed a different ambassador to Eryadin bajedi’s post. That man needed a secretary too. The Stand said it would not pay for two men to occupy the same post.” 

The words cut through some of the haze Ozal had felt since he awoke. “What?” he snapped. “How could they have already replaced the ambassador?” 

“It was not exactly yesterday, and the situation with Vaspahan is not improving --” 

“Of course it's not improving, half the Stand still thinks we are in the days of the settlement and that our magic is strong enough --” 

His uncle raised his hands. “Ozal,” he interrupted. “Enough. If you worried about the affairs of your house as much as you worried about the state of magic in Kadehir, your sister would have been well cared for these past few months.”

Ozal flinched, but he could not argue with what his uncle said.

After a moment in which Ozal did not respond, Berdu continued, “Your sister tried to argue the Stand's decision, but even proud as she is she wrote to me for help.” He gave a long sigh, no longer looking at Ozal but deep in his own memory. “Together we were able to secure funds, but it was not easy. I do not know what we would have done if you had taken another month to recover. It was all but a miracle we were able to keep your Mucevhed.”

Kadim was still standing silently ready by the bed in case he was required. Only the faintest twitch of the muscles around his mouth betrayed any reaction to the words. If Kadim had not been with him almost every day for the past thirteen years, Ozal probably wouldn't have noticed. Berdu gave no indication that he had.

“And no one is more thankful for that than me,” Ozal muttered between gritted teeth. 

Berdu’s mouth was set in a straight line. “I left my own wife and children behind to help care for your household. Now that you are recovered, I would like to return to them. But please, listen to me. You must get your affairs and your household in order. If something were to happen to you again --”

“You mean, if I were to fall under a curse again, because of course we still do not know who did this to me or why.” Ozal supplied the words that his uncle would not say. 

The blood drained from Berdu's face. “That, well,” he paused, swallowed heavily, and started again. “That is of course a matter for the Stand, right?”

A matter for the Stand. A matter for the organization that had not been able to cure him, and that had not resolved the trouble with Vaspahan in his absence.

But nonetheless, still the only organization in Kadehir that could make things better. 

“Of course,” Ozal echoed emptily. 

His uncle swallowed heavily and added, “Well, now that I have told you everything, I really should start preparing for my return --” 

“I understand.” Berdu had probably already spent more time than he would have liked in Kadehir. He would no doubt be eager to return, even more so after a discussion with Ozal about the failings of the Stand or magic itself. “Thank you for everything that you have done during my -- illness.” The word felt foul on his tongue. He tried not to show it. “If there is anything that can be done to help you prepare --” 

Berdu looked amused. “Who would help me? Remember, your whole household has been dismissed.”

Ozal muttered darkly under his breath. “I suppose you are right.” As Berdu turned to go, Ozal called out, “Uncle, could you then find the magician and tell him I wish to meet with him? Sanctum style.” 

The god-trees of the Empire lived in the Inner Courtyard of the Stand, and the space underneath their roots was called the Sanctum. It was a place of great magic, the holiest location in the Stand. No one except a full magician of the Stand was allowed there, and even they were held to a very high level of decorum. To hold a conference sanctum-style meant alone, without even a Mucevhed: the loneliest that a magician could be. 

From the corner of his eye, Ozal could see how Kadim shifted. Ozal had implicitly dismissed him, and his displeasure with the decision was clear. But Ozal knew the weight of talking alone for a magician, and he would accept nothing less when it came to talk to the man who had saved his life. 

 

 

“Mahir had to explain to me what it meant, sandstorm stie,” the man said, after he had bowed to Ozal and introduced himself as Ahmad ji Musayeib ji Bayhas ji Hazzar Dubbhazhel. Ozal frowned and made to stand, but the man made a dismissive noise with his hand. “Please, bajedi, sit. Save yourself. I will sit on the floor.” 

He did exactly that, crossing his legs and looking up at the bed. “He said it was important, but I think it could be good to have him here. I do not speak Kadehirden perfect.” 

“You speak it very well for a foreigner,” Ozal demurred. With his dark skin and strange accent, this man was clearly not from Kadehir. “Who taught you?” 

“Oh, it was Mahir. Even in Bak Liwahar, it was uncommon for people to speak Kadehirden. I never heard it, but Mahir said it is useful to learn if I go to the Stand.” 

Ozal blinked once and then twice. Bak Liwahar -- it took him a moment to remember the name. It was the capital city of one of the furthest provinces. A journey to Kadehir from the edge of the Empire must have taken at least a month. While Kadehirden was supposed to be the official language of the Empire, perhaps it was no surprise that this Ahmad had not heard many people speak the language. 

“I am surprised to hear that a Mucevhed was in Bak Liwahar,” Ozal began, wondering what might be the most tactful way to ask the question that was on his tongue. 

“He was sold there,” Ahmad answered. “But he is free now. I paid off his debt to his master.” 

Ahmad spoke with a great deal of certainty for someone whose story made so little sense. “There was a Stand-educated magician in Bak Liwahar who took his Mucevhed outside Kadehir and then sold him to you?” Ozal asked. His head was beginning to hurt.

Ahmad shook his head. “No, his master ran a brothel.” He winced. “Perhaps Mahir does not want me to share that fact.” 

A Mucevhed being sold to a brothel on the edge of the empire made more sense than a Stand magician taking his Mucevhed halfway across the world, but only slightly. Mucevheden were rare, even rarer now that the Stand was having problems breeding ones with complete powers. A magician was supposed to bond with one for life. Ozal had never heard of a Mucevhed being sold out of Kadehir, and more superstitious magicians were known to say being too long away from the magic of Kadehir could even kill one. Perhaps this Mucevhed’s master had died with debts to pay. The thought occurred to Ozal that such a fate had been only narrowly averted for Kadim by Ahmad. That was a terrible thought indeed. 

A brothel was an especially cruel fate for an Mucevhed. It was considered the height of virtue for a Mucevhed to only serve one man his whole life. By the careless way he spoke about it, Ahmad probably did not know that fact. If his Mucevhed had not said anything, neither would Ozal.

“So, he was sold to a man in Bak Liwahar, who you bought him from -- and, once you bought him, you decided to come to Kadehir?” 

“Mahir said that if I wanted to learn magic, the Stand is the only place to learn.” 

“But Ahmad,” Ozal felt the corner of his mouth lift, “Surely if you can cure whatever spell afflicted me, you have already mastered magic. What could the Stand have left to teach you?”

Ahmad shook his head. “I am good at seeing the magic in a person. I am good at changing it. Your magic was in a knot and I untied it. But there is so much other magic that the Stand does. I saw how they control the weather, Mahir said they control the tides too. Everything. That is magic that I do not know. There were many sandstorms in the mountains my clan travelled -- probably in Bak Liwahar, too -- in the past few years. I want to help. The Stand can show me how.”

The beginning of a smile had died on Ozal’s lips. It was replaced with a frown. One of the most perennially popular subjects of academic debate at the Stand was how many different kinds of magic there were. Treatises going back to the founding of Kadehir argued one way or the other. But in recent years it had been widely accepted that magic was more similar than dissimilar, and it was only a failure of training that could lead to a magician struggling with one type but excelling in another. This was, perhaps, just an extreme case of that. 

“I am happy to introduce you to the Stand,” Ozal said. “There is an exam you will take first, to determine magical abilities. After you have passed that exam, the real instruction will begin. Normally magicians take the exam at twelve or thirteen years of age and are full magicians at seventeen or eighteen. However, you would not be the first adult student at the Stand. It will be unusual but not unprecedented.” 

There had been so much hope all those years ago when Savaner kishah -- fresh off a naval victory over Vaspahan -- had graduated into a full magician in a record two years instead of the normal five to six. Some had said that the first adult student at the Stand might usher in a new era of reawakened magic. But there had been no men like him since. Ahmad would be the first. Ozal would give him his highest recommendation, but a man of low birth from the edge of the kingdom might not be greeted as warmly as a Kadehirden military hero.

Ahmad was nodding in agreement, though, and Ozal kept his doubts private. “When is the exam?” Ahmad asked. 

“I will speak to the master of Magical Education at the Stand and see how quickly it can be arranged. Perhaps we can go meet him tomorrow.” From the attack of his person to the word of a new ambassador to Vaspahan to the training of Ahmad, there was a great deal of things Ozal had to discuss with the other magicians at the Stand. 

“That is wonderful to hear,” Ahmad exclaimed. He moved to stand, and then bowed again. “Thank you, bajedi.” 

Ozal had already half agreed to the praise before he realized and laughed. “It should be me thanking you. But please, if you go, call back in my Mucevhed.” He was starting to feel a little dizzy from so much talking, but his pride would not let him say as much. Ahmad nodded with so much sympathy that Ozal wondered if he knew anyway. 

It was not a request that was particularly difficult to complete. Ozal watched Ahmad leave, and in the doorway Kadim was already standing there. Nadide was at his side. There was no missing the raw fury in her eyes. 

 

“Please, sister, I don’t think I can do another audience,” Ozal muttered after Ahmad had left and Nadide and Kadim stepped inside. 

The long sigh that greeted his words was a sign that Nadide was sympathetic, but not so sympathetic that she did not lay out her accusation: “You discussed my future without me.” A pause and then she added, “You say you are too tired to see me now, but you were not too tired to discuss my future with our uncle.” 

Evidently Berdu had let slip some details of their conversation. At the moment, Ozal thought he would have preferred if his uncle had thrown him out to sea instead. It would have been a quicker death than the look of betrayal that his sister was giving him.

“No final decision has been made,” he sighed. There was a pause as both of them considered the words that obviously neither of them quite believed. “We can discuss this more tomorrow.” 

For a moment, Nadide’s expression did not change. But Ozal did not say anything further, and the harsh line of his sister’s mouth softened. “Are you truly so tired from today?” 

“Whatever was done to me, I think it make take some time before I am fully recovered,” Ozal chose his words carefully. 

“We should invite this magician to stay with us,” Nadide said suddenly. “He might be able to help you more. I don’t know where he is staying in Kadehir, but he does not seem to know many people. I doubt his hosts will be offended.” A thought seemed to occur her, and she pursed her lips. “Our accommodations might be a little poor at the moment, though.” 

“Talk to them,” Ozal said, eager for a chance to encourage Nadide in this change of topic. “Give them the best room we have available.” 

Nadide nodded and then walked forward to embrace him. 

“I will thank the gods tonight and tomorrow morning that you are back,” she whispered before heading out. 

Ozal waited a minute after the door was closed before he collapsed back into bed. Kadim was by his side in a moment, tracing the outline of Ozal’s jaw with his fingers. 

“Kadim,” Ozal asked slowly. “Do you think we still have my father’s old things?” 

“Most of them,” There was curiosity in Kadim’s voice. 

Ozal sighed. “Tonight, can you look and see if we still have the cane that he used in his last few years?” Kadim gave a silent nod, and Ozal teased, “I know that it is a bit common of a task to set an Mucevhed on, but it appears we do not have any other options.”

That got a wry smile from Kadim. “It is nothing I am not used to by now,” he said softly. “You should get some rest.” It was an appealing invitation, and not one that Ozal found easy to resist. He closed his eyes as Kadim drew his head onto his lap and started to unwind the length of Ozal’s turban. “This is only your first day so recovered. And so much happened while you slept.”

 

 

Nadide found the magician and his Mucevhed sitting together near the staircase, talking in hushed tones in a language that Nadide didn’t understand. As soon as she walked in, the Mucevhed stood and bowed. That was standard etiquette. The magician bowed too, which was not. Nadide did her best to suppress a quirk of her left lip before she spoke. 

“Where are you two staying? My brother would like to invite you to stay here, if your current hosts will permit us to steal you from them.”

“That is most kind, janim,” the Mucevhed responded. “Our accommodations are further south, but I will fetch our things tonight if my master agrees.”

“We will not have much to fetch,” the magician Ahmad added. Nadide could see how his Mucevhed stiffened at the words, although he did an admirable job of keeping his expression impassive. Perhaps he had been hoping to hide his master’s common origins. No small task, particularly not while his master seemed to have no interest in helping him. 

“First let me show you to where you will be staying,” Nadide ignored the exchange and kept her tone light. Once she started to walk, Ahmad fell a few steps with her with his Mucevhed shadowing politely behind. Her brother and uncle were both nowhere to be seen. Her stomach fluttered nervously. This was the opportunity she had been hoping for. Nadide turned to the magician and asked, “How long have you been a magician, bajedi?” 

The man’s brows pulled together. “I guess I was born a magician,” he answered uncertainly. 

Her smile in return was thin. “Of course. But surely there was a time when you started being able to do more, beyond -- simple tricks, let’s say.” 

Everyone knew that a magician required a Mucevhed to do more than a trivial amount of magic. That why was the Stand raised Mucevheden: to ensure that their magicians would always have someone with whom they could bond. This man’s Mucevhed had almost certainly been born in the Stand, but Ahmad himself had not been in Kadehir long. However they had met, it could not have been such a long time ago. And given how talented a magician this man was, it seemed unlikely his first experience with real magic had started when he met this Mucevhed. 

“Oh,” the man laughed. “It caused my mother such a fright. We were outside, trying to milk one of the goats. It belonged to my father’s first wife, who was very strict with my mother because she was the youngest of the wives. My mother was convinced even this goat disliked her, and she was nervous when milking it. Well, the goat gave a kick and broke the jar. Milk soaked everywhere, and my mother looked ready to cry. I saw how upset she was and so I -- made it back together. I thought she would be happy, but she made me swear that whatever I had done, I would keep it out of sight of anyone else in the family. It was not until I was a shepherd and away from my family that I got a chance to practice magic more often. But then, everything I did was nothing compared to what I could do after I met Mahir.” 

Nadide felt her heart skip a beat as she listened, and she was so distracted that she actually walked right past the room where she intended the two of them to stay. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, as she stopped, “The doorway is actually a little ways back.” Her own voice sounded far away.

“You were surprised to hear my story. Is it really so unusual?” 

Nadide opened her mouth and found she lacked the words to answer the magician’s question. She closed it, tried again, and still could not find any. It was the Mucevhed -- Mahir, that was what the magician had called him -- who finally demurred, “It is a little different from what you normally hear in Kadehir.” 

She walked them back the few feet to the door and opened it for them. They walked inside. There was no further need for her here, but still she stayed near the doorway. Finally, unsure what else she could do, she said all at once, “So it is possible to do magic without a Mucevhed. You were able to do magic consistently and under control before you ever met one.”

“Of course,” the man said, blinking at her as if he couldn’t understand why she had asked such an obvious question. 

Nadide looked both ways down the hall. There was still no sign of anyone else in the hallway. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside and closed the door after her. Even in her own house, it was scandalous for her to be alone with a strange man, but she knew that she could never let her brother and uncle hear the question on her tongue.

“Can you teach me magic?”

She feared the man might laugh or shake his head, tell her that it was impossible and that she was chasing a very foolish dream. 

He did not do any of those things, but he did frown. “I thought you could already do magic.” 

The Mucevhed gave a half-strangled noise that he turned into an unconvincing cough. Nadide crossed her hands in front of her and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. If she had not known better, she might have thought this man was having a joke at her expense. 

“You are talking about how my brother survived,” she said softly. The man nodded. “How my brother survived a curse that killed another man.”

“The spell on your brother wanted to destroy him. Something kept it inside him. A rough spell, maybe, but something. I thought it was probably your magic, because your uncle said he was not a magician and Mahir says Mucevheden cannot use the magic they keep in their bodies.” 

It sounded so simple and matter-of-fact when he said it. Nadide worried the bottom of her lip, and then confessed, “I went to my brother's room every morning. Kadim knows this. And every time I went I felt -- something within him, something strange. None of the Stand magicians mentioned anything like it. But I knew it was there. And it seemed dangerous. So in my mind those mornings, I focused on -- pushing it back.” She let out a ragged sigh. “I thought I was going mad, but as long as he stayed alive I kept up my morning ritual.”

“It took me years before I could control my magic like that,” Ahmad nodded. “You have talent.”

“I have always learned that magic cannot be done without a Mucevhed,” Nadide continued. Ahmad’s nostrils flared in annoyance. “I have also always been told that a woman lacks the proper temperament for either magic or bonding with a Mucevhed.” 

“All magic takes is a source and a will. Your brother’s curse was the source, and you were the will. You did not need anyone else. As for whether you can do magic as a woman, you already did it, so clearly what you heard was wrong.” 

He spoke with an impatient finality. Clearly this man did not share Nadide's confusion about what had happened or how it could have been possible. The Stand was the leading magical authority in the world, she wanted to say. How could they be wrong about this? But the Stand had been unable to help her brother in months while this man fixed him right away. 

“Maybe I can do magic,” she said, “But I want -- need -- guidance. Please, teach me. I can pay. Whatever the price, I can pay it.” There was still jewelry that she had not pawned off while waiting for her brother to wake. And she had only removed a necklace or two from her dowry. Surely she could steal another trinket from that collection. Whatever her brother said, she did not intend that dowry to be used anytime soon. Not while her brother was still recovering and unmarried himself.

The man scratched the black hairs of his beard, his expression the perfect image of uncertainty. “I came to Kadehir to learn magic myself. I never taught anyone magic, and I’m not even sure I can.” 

“I just -- I just need to know how to stop whoever did this to my brother before they do it again. To anyone else.” Nadide did a bad job of trying to hide the desperation in her voice. The Stand would never accept her. And she could not imagine where she could find another magician in Kadehir who would even believe she could do magic.

Nadide was willing to do anything not to feel again the helplessness she had felt in the past three months. 

“I know,” Ahmad said, and there was a kindness in his voice that Nadide recognized. Her brother used it sometimes, whenever he was going to tell her something he knew she did not want to hear. Her whole body stiffened. “After I take the test and start at the Stand, I will teach you. Just -- please, be patient.”

A rush of relief coursed through her body. She bowed so deeply she almost touched the floor. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”


	4. A Social Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter was very much delayed! I had hoped to get a chapter out every month or so, but this chapter was delayed by the holidays, life changes, and significant rewrites. I'm really hoping now to go back to my original publication schedule. Thanks for everyone's patience. 
> 
> Brief content warning for mentions of animal sacrifice this chapter. (It's not graphic, don't worry.)

The morning saw the house bustling with activity. The uncle had hired a boy to help pack up his belongings in preparation for his departure. Nadide must have gone to the Stand at dawn, because she arrived with a priest and a sacrificial bull whose horns had been painted white. The priest cut its throat over the entrance to the house and thanked the Lord for lending Ozal bajedi his strength. It was an extravagant display of piety, and not one Mahir would have expected from a family that had to make due without help. It even looked like there might be an argument between Nadide and her uncle on that subject, but it was interrupted by Ozal walking slowly down the stairs aided by a cane. His Mucevhed followed silently behind. 

“Ahmad,” he said when he had reached the base of the stairwell, “I know I told you that we would go to the Stand today, but I am afraid I will have to delay. I'd rather wait until I can introduce you without having to stop for breath.” His tone was light but Mahir could see the agitation with which he kept adjusting his grip on the cane. Privately Mahir wondered if it would really only be a day's delay. 

“Of course.” Ahmad nodded, doing little to hide the disappointment in his expression. He could be an impatient man. 

“I do wonder,” Ozal continued, “if my healing would not go faster with some magical assistance --” 

Nadide's back stiffened at the words, but she needn't have worried. Ahmad had already started to shake his head. “I am sorry, but it does not work like that. It was magic that made you harm. So your body needs a rest from magic. More will only make more harm.”

It was clearly not the answer Ozal had hoped to hear. “Very well then. I suppose there is no helping it, then. Tomorrow, though. We will be going to the Stand tomorrow.” 

He had started to walk forward when Nadide called out behind him, “And if you aren't recovered by then? There is no harm in waiting a few days. And you might only make your injuries worse if you do not rest.”

Mahir knew any delay would mean a delay for Nadide's would-be magical instruction. But the concern in her voice was real, and she sounded just as desperate now as she had last night when asking Ahmad to tutor her. 

It apparently did not make the words any easier for her brother to hear. He had gone very still. “I will call a carriage if it comes to that,” he said at last, in a tone that made it clear this was not a discussion he planned to let continue. “I am a man of my word, and my word is that we will go tomorrow. Come, Kadim, I have letters to write.”

The master of the house’s Mucevhed stepped forward hastily. 

“Is there any help you need from me, bajedi?” Ahmad asked. Ozal turned back around to face him.

“Help? You’re a guest to this household. I think we’ll all agree you’ve helped quite enough.” Ozal’s tone lightened considerably. Perhaps he intended the words to cheer up Ahmad, but if so he could hardly have chosen worse. “I suppose there might be something that could interest you, though. My library could be of use to you for the exam tomorrow.” 

The blood left Ahmad’s face. “There reading for this exam?” he asked. 

“I take it you were not a model pupil at school,” Ozal gave a small laugh, no doubt thinking it a good joke. Mahir wondered if Ozal knew that Ahmad had never attended school in his life. “You needn't worry, it's a strictly practical exam.” 

Ozal turned back around and started to walk out of the room, and so he did not see the way that Ahmad’s shoulders sagged in relief. 

“I’ve never seen a man look so terrified at the prospect of holding a book,” Nadide said, her attention back on Ahmad as Ozal left them.

Before Ahmad had the chance to explain, Mahir asked quickly, “Can you show us where this library is, please, janum?” 

 

It was a good-sized library. Not perhaps the largest private library that Mahir had ever been in, but definitely larger than many magicians would bother collecting.

Ahmad stood near the doorway without saying anything for a minute. Then he walked past the books, paused, and walked back to the doors again. 

“Is this a normal library?” he finally asked in a hushed tone.

“What do you mean?” Mahir asked. He knew that Ahmad could not read. It had never been a problem before. In Bak Liwahar, there had never been any business that required reading and in Kadehir, Mahir had handled any business that did. A Mucevhed was supposed to help a master manage his affairs. Maybe usually not so many of his affairs, but Ahmad did not seem to mind. Except now, he looked like he would rather have faced a stampede of sacrificial bulls than be here in Ozal’s library. 

“It's not supposed to be a _frightening_ library,” Mahir added with a slight quirk of his lip.

“It’s not --” Ahmad stopped, gave his head a rueful shake and reverted to Wakamiri. “I’ve never seen anything like this. But you hardly seem surprised.” 

“Most magicians have a library in their homes. Ozal is a bit more scholarly than most, but he has not been excessive.” 

Ahmad blinked as he looked over the books. Mahir started to frown. An old habit from before Bak Liwahar, but his muscles always tensed when his master appeared upset. 

“I’m not upset, Mahir,” Ahmad corrected, with a sideways glance towards him. Mahir did not say anything but tried unsuccessfully to relax. “It’s just,” Ahmad's voice twisted, with an emotion that Mahir couldn’t quite identify, “how can you see a library like this and think that I’m a magician?” 

“But you are a magician,” Mahir said. “We are here because your magic saved a man’s life.”

Ahmad stared at the row of books. “I’m beginning to think that in Kadehir, there might be a difference between knowing magic and being a magician.” 

Mahir’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He knew what Ahmad meant; he wished he didn’t. “That’s not possible,” he forced himself to say. He hoped that if he kept talking, he might convince himself. “The Stand exists to study magic. They’ve taken students from all kinds of backgrounds, so long as they are adept.” 

“All kinds of backgrounds, so long as they are from Kadehir.”

“Kadehir is a city that is full of magic. It was built on magic. You’ve felt it yourself.” Ahmad nodded, although his gaze remained skeptical. “The Stand has always believed that it is because Kadehir has so much magic that it is the only city in the world that can produce magicians. When they meet you, they will see that was wrong.”

“Do you really believe that?” Ahmad’s tone made it clear he did not. 

“I’ve seen it before,” Mahir answered. It was meant to be encouragement, but he could not keep the rueful note out of his answer. Another man might have missed it, but Mahir saw the concern flash in Ahmad's eyes. “The Stand used to believe magical powers would exhibit either as a child or not at all. It was my former master who changed their mind. Now the Stand has no qualms accepting adults.”

That look of concern had made a home in Ahmad's eyes. Mahir had never liked to talk about his former master, even back in Bak Liwahar when the man had been a thousand miles away. But Ahmad had asked, and Mahir had answered. 

“Did -- did he do well at the exam?” Ahmad finally asked after a long pause.

“He did.” Privately Mahir knew that was an understatement. Savaner had done exceptionally well. It had been the talk of Kadehir for months afterwards. But the praise tasted like poison on Mahir’s tongue, and he could not force himself to say it. 

He was grateful to see some of the tension leave Ahmad. “And he was a bad man, too,” he said, as if reassuring himself of something.

“The Stand isn't going to test whether or not you're a bad person,” Mahir had to point out.

Ahmad made a face. “Perhaps it should. It could save itself a lot of trouble.”

It was not an idea likely to be proposed by a true magician of the Stand, but privately Mahir found it difficult to disagree. “Either way, though, you said you wanted to practice. Let's find what Ozal has in his library that could help.”

 

 

Ozal had said he would write, but instead he sat with quill in hand and instead tried to will more breath into his body. 

His body still felt impossibly heavy and every breath still tasted of ash. Sleep had not helped. He was still absurdly tired. Ozal could not understand why. Kadim had described the curse as being like a heavy sleep. If it had been, surely his body had slept enough for a lifetime. 

Perhaps it had not helped that Ozal had slept poorly the last night, waking up in fits and starts just to move his arms or his legs to prove that he could still. 

These feelings would pass. They had to. But first, Ozal had to remember how to breath. He closed his eyes. He tried to focus on the magical exercises he had learned as a child, to feel the push and pull of magic around him. Instead, all he felt was...frayed. 

It was almost a relief when he heard Kadim clear his throat from a respectful distance. “There are guests here to see you. Doruk bajedi, bringing with him Alev janum. They said they heard the news of your recovery from Nadide at the Stand this morning and wished to speak with you.”

Eryadin’s brother and widow. Ozal stood up, but too quickly at first. He had to reach for his father's cane or he might have fallen. 

“I can call them in here,” Kadim looked him over uncertainly. His balance recovered, Ozal continued walking as if his Mucevhed had kept quiet. 

 

Doruk had already made himself comfortable sitting on the cushions with Berdu, but he rose to greet Ozal. 

“Praise to the Lord and all the other gods, you really are recovered.” Ozal wasn't quite sure the gods really deserved that praise just yet, but he kept that thought private. “Alev, look at him.” 

Ozal had expected Alev to have been escorted to the women's quarters by Nadide already. But he turned to see the two women standing by the door. By the harsh lines of Nadide's mouth, she had no doubt shared his expectation. 

Either Alev desperately wanted to see him or -- more likely -- Doruk desperately wanted him to see Alev. Ozal looked at her. She was a lovely enough woman -- but he drew in his breath sharply when he saw her veil. It was the custom of widows to veil, there was nothing unusual about that, but Alev was veiled in white. That was an honor the Stand reserved for the widows of a select few men. The last time Ozal had seen widows veiled in white was eight years ago, during the brief Summer War against Vaspahan.

And now here stood Alev, wearing the same. It was peace time but the Stand apparently considered her a war widow. 

“Alev,” Ozal forced her name past his lips. Of course he should bow, shower his guests with pleasantries. But shock had made him simple. She gave a polite bow in response, as if he had not done anything out of the ordinary. But Ozal could not stop staring. He had met Alev several times before when Eryadin had been alive. He had never thought her a zealot. 

“As Eryadin's older brother, it falls on me to see his widow married.” Doruk said. Hope and expectation buoyed his voice.

“Of course,” Berdu nodded along, his own private calculations illuminating his gaze. “As you are no doubt aware, my nephew is similarly concerned about seeing his sister properly married --”

Ozal sat down heavily. It was rude for him to sit down when there were still female guests to be escorted out, but his legs had started to buckle. He would not admit that out loud, though. “Let's have a hanging before a wedding,” he muttered. 

“Do you know who it is that should hang for what has been done to you and my brother?” Doruk asked. 

Ozal frowned. Perhaps this was not just a matchmaking call after all. “I cannot think of anyone who could, or would, have done what was done.” 

Alev sighed in disappointment. 

“But I swear to you, on all seven gods, I will do everything in my power --” 

“You really don't know?” Doruk's voice carried none of Alev's disappointment. Just surprise. Ozal shook his head slowly. “You were poisoned,” Doruk continued. “I admit I hoped -- that is to say the conjecture of everyone in the Stand had been that you and my brother likely took tea with the Vaspahanian ambassadors that fateful day. Some people even thought if you recovered, you might have been willing to profess their guilt.” 

Ozal's shoulders stiffened. Eryadin would have been ashamed to hear those words from his own brother.

“To identify the Vaspahanian ambassadors like that would be an act of war,” he warned. 

He might as well have thrown away his cane and done a jig for the incredulous looks the two of them gave him. “Poisoning you was an act of war, bajedi,” Doruk objected. 

“I was not poisoned.” The declaration did little to mollify his guests.

“The magician who cured him attests to it, bajedi,” his sister murmured in dutiful agreement.

That got a surprised look from Doruk. “Of course, how foolish of me not to ask earlier. Who was the man who finally cured you? The Stand is sure to give him the highest honors.”

There was such an eagerness in his voice. Ozal hesitated. “He is a foreigner,” he finally said. 

“I thought you said he was a magician,” Doruk's brows furrowed. 

“He is a foreign magician,” Berdu forced a laugh that rang hollow. “Is it not strange? But of course so was my nephew's illness.” 

Doruk let out a contemplative noise. It did not sound convinced. “He sounds like a curious man,” he said at last. “Is he still here? I would very much like to speak with him.”

“I will fetch him,” Nadide volunteered at once, and she left before anyone could stop her or point out how absurd it was that there was no one to fetch the man in her stead.

 

 

A great deal of the books that Mahir could find were works he knew well: classic texts in the Stand, abstract ruminations on the precise nature and limits of magic. They were useless to Ahmad now. Mahir had to look hard to find anything relevant to the exam. Finally, he picked up a scroll that he did not recognize and was delighted to see a title that identified it as a resource for children preparing for the exam. 

The scroll contained a series of diagrams for certain exercises to practice basic magic, presumably similar to what the Stand would want to see. It appeared the scroll had been copied several times, with each copier leaving their name and a note of encouragement. No wonder Mahir had never seen anything like it before. This was the kind of heirloom that was passed down in families with generations of magicians, fathers helping sons understand and prepare for the trials of the Stand. Savaner’s father had been a butcher. Ahmad’s father had almost certainly never seen a book in his life. 

It was a good resource, and Mahir spent the afternoon helping Ahmad practice moving stacked books. Mahir knew that Ahmad was better at magic that involved people, but he was still surprised at how soon Ahmad was struggling with this simple task.

“It is difficult to concentrate,” Ahmad finally sighed. 

“Is something bothering you?” 

Ahmad shook his head. “No -- it is Kadehir. It is difficult to draw on your magic for too long here. There is too much other magic.” 

Mahir frowned. “I thought an excess of magic would be a good thing for a magician.”

“Maybe for some, but it just --” Ahmad shook his head. “It feels odd. It is this constant -- humming, I guess. I have never felt anything like it, not growing up, not at Bak Liwahar. I try to focus on you, and all I hear is this humming. It is a cold thing -- wet, somehow, maybe. Odd. I think it does not like me. All that makes things harder.” 

“But you have been able to do magic. You cured Ozal bajedi.” 

Ahmad’s nostrils flared in amusement. “Back home, I would not have needed to try twice.” 

Mahir wasn't sure he understood, but there was nothing unusual about that. “Maybe you'll feel better after a short rest,” he suggested. “Perhaps a short walk. I doubt our hosts would mind.” 

“This house is large enough to get lost in,” Ahmad laughed. “Let's explore for a bit.”

 

 

Nadide found the magician and his Mucevhed wandering the halls of the western wing, deeply engrossed in a conversation in their own language. She explained that her brother had guests who wished to speak with him.

“With the Stand?” he asked. 

Nadide shook her head. “Doruk bajedi is not a magician himself, but his brother was.”

Something about that seemed to amuse Ahmad. “We find one connection to the Stand, now we find all of them,” he muttered. Nadide had no idea what that meant, but she escorted Ahmad back to where the other guests were waiting. 

She introduced him quickly before returning back to where Alev was waiting. 

“We should leave,” she muttered to the other woman. They would only be able to talk freely when they had left the company of men. But Alev made no motion to go. Instead, her gaze stayed on Ahmad. Her lips were pulled very thin. 

If the reception of the foreign magician was lacking in warmth, her brother appeared not to notice. “I hear that you were studying my library,” he said with a generous smile. “I hope you found it to your satisfaction. What did you read?” 

“Oh, I found a scroll with practice for the exam tomorrow. With Mahir, I stacked books.” 

Doruk laughed. He might have intended it to be polite, but there was a sharpness to it. “Why waste your time with a scroll like that? It is intended for children. I remember my father giving it to my brother -- when he turned eleven.”

“Doruk is correct,” Ozal sighed, disappointment shading his tone. “I had thought you might read, oh, I don’t know, there are some interesting books about magical healing.” 

“I take exam tomorrow,” Ahmed said, his accent growing stronger in his frustration.

Nadide turned to Alev. “You know, Ahmad bajedi already knows more about healing that any other magician who has stepped into this house.” Her voice was soft, but not so soft it wouldn't carry across the room. Nadide made sure of it “I personally don’t see why he should need to consult any more books on the subject.”

Alev looked at her as if she had started suddenly to speak in a foreign tongue. Even her uncle was casting a wary look in her direction. Nadide straightened her back. She was only speaking the truth. And was that not one of the seven virtues?

Doruk, however, was content to simply ignore her. His attention was still on Ahmad. “Either way, it does not matter. I wanted to ask you a question. I understand you do not believe Ozal bajedi was poisoned.” 

Ahmad nodded. Nadide turned to Alev and put her hand on the other woman’s arm to escort her out. She had already said more than she should, and she really needed to speak privately with the other woman.

“But that cannot be true,” Doruk continued. “The Imperial Magician’s own physician told me it was poison.”

Alev took a step forward; Nadide stopped. “Is that true?” she asked, this time truly in a whisper. At the same time, Ozal said,“That is right, the selection of the Imperial Magician is over. Did the Stand nominate Gursel?” 

Alev nodded in response to Nadide's question. Once again she tried to step forward and once again Nadide stayed still.

Behind her, Berdu corrected her brother. “Tolga bajedi was the one chosen by the Emperor.” 

Alev opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say was drowned out by a sudden crack. Nadide turned around to see that Ozal had thrown their father’s cane on the ground. Alev gave a small gasp at the same time that Nadide raised her free hand to cover her face. It was only a moment later, when she was certain she was no longer smiling, that she lowered her hand. 

By tradition, no citizen of the Empire could speak a word against the Imperial Magician, who was the magical advisor to the Emperor and the highest ranking magician in Kadehir and, by extension, the Empire itself. 

But of course her brother had not at that moment said any words about the man at all.

There were a few seconds of silence. “He is a good man for these troubled times,” Doruk finally sighed.

Kadim ran quietly forward to pick up the cane and present it back to his master. Ozal took it back and said mildly, “Gursel is an honorable man. Eryadin and I both thought so.”

“He may be honorable, but he favored conciliation with the Vaspahanians. Imagine, compromising to stop them from sailing their boats through our waters? The founders of Kadehir would be rolling in their graves if they knew.” 

“The founders of Kadehir are welcome to strike their ships down. Until then, we must do what we can.” There was no warmth in Ozal's tone. Alev drew in an impatient breath. Nadide looked at her with some sympathy. Normally families met several times to negotiate a marriage; Nadide suspected Doruk would not be returning to call on her brother again soon. That was a shame. Her brother had been a bachelor for too long and Alev seemed a good woman.

“Ozal ajendi, let us speak of other things,” Doruk sighed. “This is a trying conversation, and you are still recovering. Whatever was done to you --” 

“Whatever was done to him, it was magic. As I said earlier.” Ahmad chimed in. “Not poison, bajendi.”

“The physician explained everything to me,” Doruk gritted his teeth, “He conducted all the spells he knew for detecting malevolence done upon a body. There had been no opportunity to do this on my brother, as he had already been buried by that time. But since you lingered, he explained to me --”

Nadide lost his words as her mind settled in the memories. She remembered the physician well. A young man, with a well-trimmed beard and skin wrinkled before its time. Apparently he had spent too much time in the sun in his previous post, as one of those magicians recently stationed with the Imperial Navy. But it wasn't that oddity that Nadide remembered most about him. She remembered his eyes, and the horrible pity with which they had regarded her.

“Poison is, I suppose, the most likely culprit,” he had explained. “If that is what has happened, it will linger in the body. How long, I cannot be sure.”

Back in the present, Doruk finished, “He discovered the poison in you and alerted the Imperial Magician at once.”

Nadide said, “He did not.” 

Alev's hands tugged at her sleeve. “Surely you would prefer to speak alone,” she whispered.

But it was too late. All the men in the room were staring at her. She had overstayed her welcome in this mixed crowd. Nadide was not supposed to be there. She was certainly not supposed to baldly contradict her brother's guest.

“He did not what, Nadide janum?” Ahmad asked, concern in his eyes. The look that Doruk gave her was concern of a completely different type.

“I watched him do the spells and incantations. Uncle, you were there, you remember.” 

“The physician said it was likely poison,” Berdu demurred. 

“He said he believed it _might_ be poison, because there are many poisons in the world and apparently it is difficult to detect a poison one is not familiar with. But he never said he had discovered it, and he was certainly not sure it was the cause.”

He had also said there was nothing he could do to help. Nadide remembered his words vividly. They had felt like they would crush her. 

And perhaps now they still would. 

“That seems a small difference,” Doruk shrugged. “Perhaps he gained confidence in his diagnosis upon further reflection.”

The room fell into silence for a minute. Nadide looked at her brother, waiting to see if he would contradict the other man. But Ozal was not looking at Doruk, or Ahmad, or even Nadide. His concentration appeared to be somewhere else entirely. “I will ask the physician tomorrow,” he finally said. “I will request his presence at the Stand when I am there to introduce Ahmad.” Ozal's attention suddenly was on Doruk. “Until then, I fear I am, as you said earlier, still recovering. My strength is not what it was.” 

It was not the politest dismissal, but Doruk still appeared relieved. “Please, focus on your recovery,” he said. “Until then, Alev and I must be going.”

The two of them departed as quickly as good manners would allow. It was perhaps too late but Nadide all but tripped over herself to compliment Alev before she left. After all, while the woman would likely not try to call on her brother again, she might still answer a future letter or two from Nadide.

When she returned from sending them off, she saw her brother still had not moved from his seat. Ahmad sat beside him. 

“What did you think?” He asked the foreign magician.

Ahmad looked somewhat cross. “Your guest is stubborn.”

“The physician changed his mind. Or, perhaps someone changed it for him.”

Berdu laughed nervously. “Changed it for him? I am not sure quite what you are implying, nephew.” 

Ahmad appeared interested, though. “Who do you think changed it?”

“The person with the most authority over him would be a natural suspect.”

Nadide drew in an impatient breath. “You mean Tolga bajedi.” She waited, but her brother did not deny it. “Ozal, that is a very serious accusation.”

“Good, as it appears to have been a very serious curse.” 

“I know you two have -- differed in your opinions, but he is no murderer. He even visited us a few times during your illness, which, for a man of his rank --”

Ozal still wasn't looking at her. His fingers drummed against their father's cane impatiently. “And thieves return to visit their victims again,” he muttered to himself.

“Your sister speaks correctly. I remember this man well,” Berdu's tone was more cautious than Nadine's. “He did do everything in his power to make sure that your sister received something of a pension --” 

“And how did that go for our household?” Ozal countered. There was an ugliness in his voice. Even Kadim flinched.

Nadide held steady. “Better than it could have. Be careful what you say outside these walls.”

“We will discover the truth,” Ozal responded. He turned to Ahmad. “You don’t need to waste your time with children’s books. You will pass the exam tomorrow. There’s simply too much at stake for this to go any differently.” 

 

 

Ahmad was quiet as the two of them climbed back up the stairs to their room. It was late, and their hosts had dispersed for the night. “What did you think?” He asked Mahir. 

Mahir was glad his master had asked in Wakamiri so he could be honest in his reply. “I knew the Stand had its own dangers, but what Ozal bajedi suggests is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

He expected Ahmad to look concerned or nervous about the situation. But instead his expression was one, surprisingly, of vindication. “I told you the Stand should test a man's morality,” he nodded to himself.


	5. The Stand - part 1

Berdu departed early the next morning. Most of Kadehir still slept, but Ozal and Nadide were there to see him off. Ozal did not think he was imagining the relief in his uncle's expression at the thought of returning home, but still he dawdled on their doorstep.

“My wife has so many fond memories of this house,” he sighed. “Almost two centuries old, but still so beautiful. Ozal, you must do everything in your power to ensure it stands for at least two more.” 

The look he gave was too pointed for that to be merely a platitude. Ozal was not so cruel as to ask which prospect frightened his uncle more: his bachelordom or the accusations he had made only yesterday against the most powerful magician in the Empire. It was not like his uncle's answer would sway his mind on either topic. Instead, he just nodded. 

“Thank you for everything you've done for my family,” he replied instead. A few more parting words, an embrace for both Ozal and Nadide, and then Berdu had set off for his home. 

When their uncle was no longer visible against the horizon, Ozal turned to go back inside.

“Are you still planning on going to the Stand today?” He heard Nadide ask. When he turned to face her, he caught her staring at his cane before she noticed and lifted her gaze.

Ozal's shoulders stiffened. Of course he should have expected the question; Kadim had asked the same thing this morning. He repeated now what he had said then. “I am a man of my word, and I have already delayed once.” 

One day had the habit of becoming many more.

Before Nadide could raise an objection -- and she looked ready to -- he added, “It is too common a task for him, but I will have Kadim fetch a carriage.” 

His sister's mouth contorted into a bitter smile. “If doing that bothers you, you will surely be horrified to know that I will the one to cook Ahmad bajedi his celebratory first lunch as a student of the Stand.” 

If Berdu had been aiming for Ozal's conscience, Nadide's words found their target. Ozal grimaced. 

“I will resume my post soon enough. Collect a salary again. And then our lives can continue as they were.” 

Even as he spoke, his grip tightened on the cane. Already his legs were beginning to complain about how long he had been standing. Nadide frowned. 

“If the Gods will it,” she said, but doubt was heavy in her voice. 

 

 

The sun had risen by the time that the foreign magician came downstairs. Ozal had swallowed his pride and sent Kadim out while his sister had laid out a platter of bread, fruit, cheese and yogurt. The two of them had began to eat when Ahmad and his Mucevhed walked in to join them.

“Today we go to the Stand, yes?” Ahmad asked with obvious enthusiasm. Evidently Ozal was not alone in his determination to delay no further this introduction. As he looked over the man, however, Ozal found one detail giving him pause. 

“I understand when traveling, a simple wardrobe might be best. And you have travelled rather far to visit the Stand --”

With his rough-spun robe, Ahmad resembled the men the Stand hired to mend their walls, not study inside them. It shouldn't matter, but first impressions could be powerful things.

“If, perhaps, you need a change of clothes --” 

Ahmad waved off his objection even as he helped himself to an apple. “I like my clothes.” 

“They are not what the Stand might expect.” 

Ahmad only shrugged at that observation. “I am not what the Stand might expect. No clothes will change that.”

There was some truth in that. Still, casting about for some support, Ozal turned to his sister. “Nadide, what do you think?” 

She had evidently not been expecting to be asked her opinion. “You would know the Stand and its conventions better than me, brother,” she demurred. Ozal opened his mouth to agree, but then Nadide continued, “Still, though, I would say that if it is true what they say and magic is dying, what the Stand expects may not be what it needs.”

Ozal abruptly closed his mouth. Ahmad gave Nadide a small tilt of his head in acknowledgement. The words were not what Ozal had expected to hear. But, he thought, as he mulled them over, that didn't make them necessarily wrong.

A knock at the door forced him back to the present. “That must be Kadim,” he said. 

 

 

The groomsman that Kadim had found was so young he lacked a beard, but on such short notice this child would have to suffice.

“We should be on our way,” Ozal announced. 

“Can you leave Kadim for the day?” Nadide called back. “I will need to go to market today, and it would be better for him to go than me.” 

Ozal nodded, although the thought made him taste bile in his throat. He was not used to swallowing his pride so many times in a day. Was this really how his family had lived while he had been cursed?

“If the mistress of the house requires additional help, I can also stay,” the other magician's Mucevhed offered quietly. It was a polite offer -- and no doubt one that Nadide would much appreciate -- but still unusual not to have originated from the magician himself. Ozal turned to Ahmad for confirmation. 

The man was staring at own his Mucevhed in confusion. 

“I thought you wanted to come,” he finally said. It seemed a callous thing to say: now the Mucevhed was in the unfortunate position of drawing stares from everyone in the room.

“I do,” Mahir replied as the beginning of a blush blossomed over his cheeks. “But if I am there, it might be considered improper. A magician is only supposed to bond with his Mucevhed after the exam.” 

He cast a furtive glance at Ozal, perhaps seeking his recommendation. But Ozal found himself suddenly distracted by a different problem. 

“Of course, these days most of the men I know are with full magicians, so I never thought to wonder about the collar -- who was it that performed the bonding ceremony for you and your Mucevhed, Ahmad?”

Ozal remembered his own bonding ceremony fondly, when he met Kadim and first truly became a student of the Stand. He had been fourteen, Kadim thirteen and his first time being presented. 

“Who?” Ahmad asked, his brows knit together. “Me, of course.” 

“But that is advanced magic --” Ozal stuttered. He barely knew the details of how the spell worked, only its effect: to bind a Mucevhed to his magician and allow his magic to be called upon at will. “There are only a handful of men at the Stand who can perform such a thing, and they have had trouble finding suitable replacements.”

If Ozal had been among his peers, no doubt his confusion would have been echoed by every voice in the room. But instead no one appeared surprised by what he had said. “A few magicians who can do the spell is a greater number than the ones who knew how to cure you,” Nadide shrugged.

Ozal straightened his back. Twenty five years old and his sister still had the gift of making him feel like a scolded child. “Well then,” he said. “If this is the kind of magic Ahmad can do untrained, imagine the possibilities with a real magical education --” 

“I want you to see me take the test.” Ahmad was not talking to Ozal; he was not even looking at him. Instead, he was still staring at his Mucevhed, and his words had a sincerity that would have perhaps been better kept private. The blush on his Mucevhed's face deepened. 

“We will find a way for him to watch where he'll be too far away for you to draw on his magic,” Ozal suggested hurriedly, before Ahmad could embarrass himself further. “The judges need never know he was there.” 

Perhaps the offer was unclear, because the Mucevhed spoke for a minute in Wakamiri and it was only then that Ahmad nodded. 

“Then we really should get going,” Ozal finished. He took a minute to savor the prospect of what was to come. If Savaner kishah had been the talk of the Stand for months after he took the exam, Ahmad was sure to leave them speechless. 

 

Ozal had never taken a carriage to the Stand before. Why should he, when it was not far and -- particularly when the Emperor had decreed a fair day -- the route was pleasant? In contrast, the carriage jostled its occupants and was in the habit of lurching at odd intervals. It would have been better to walk. It would have been better if he could have walked. Ozal's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his cane. 

His only solace was that the journey went quickly, and they passed through the outer gate of the Stand without incident. When the carriage finally stopped inside the Outer Courtyard, Ozal stepped outside and relished being in the open air for just a minute.

He was back. The Stand was his second home, and someone had tried to take all of it from him. But he was still here, and he was going to see justice done.

All things in time, though. First, he hailed the first errand boy he could find. “Go fetch the Master of Magical Education, Hasmet bajedi, and tell him that Ozal has come to introduce a would-be student.” The boy nodded and made to leave, but Ozal stopped him. “And when you are done, go to the eastern wing of the Great Library. A physician by the name of Ayberk has told me to find him there.”

That accomplished, he turned back to the carriage and saw Ahmad standing and looking upwards with wide eyes. “What is it you see?” Ozal asked good-naturedly, already knowing the answer. 

“This building,” the other magician muttered, “I never saw anything like it.”

There were so many buildings inside the Stand that, wherever you looked, there was always something beautiful and ornate to catch the eye. But only one really commanded attention: the Mountain Temple. The first and oldest building in the Stand, its walls were impossibly smooth. There was no sign of mortar or nails to betray its construction; except for the spaces carved out for the windows, it looked as solid and shorn as the cliffs facing the ocean. 

“The first settlers of Kadehir carved this building from the very mountains themselves,” Ozal explained. 

“So this is the magic of the Stand,” Ahmad whispered in awe.

He sounded so impressed that Ozal was reluctant to correct him. But he was an honest man. “It has probably been generations since anyone in Kadehir was able to do something quite on this scale.” He could not quite keep the longing out of his voice. “No one is quite sure why there has been this decline, but the question is never far from any magician's mind.” 

Ahmad looked curious and Ozal could have spent the day explaining all the different theories, but at that moment Mahir had started to bow and take his leave.

“Where can he watch?” Ahmad turn to ask Ozal. 

Ozal belatedly remembered his promise from the morning. “The nursery would likely be the best spot,” he said. “No one will question his presence there. And any of the northern facing windows on the upper floors should offer a glimpse of at least the later trials. Oh, and the floors are lined with sikir, so we can be sure that you will ensure you face no accusations of an unfair advantage in the trials.”

“Sikir?” Ahmad asked. 

“It is a material that blocks magic. Rarely found outside Kadehir, or maybe just rarely appreciated. There was a concern that too much early exposure to magicians was weakening the magic of the Mucevheden, so in the last few years the floors of the nursery have been lined with sikir.” 

Ahmad’s brows furrowed. “That seems -- a strange thing to have in a school for magic,” he said. Ozal merely shrugged. It had been a somewhat controversial decision at the time, but these days the Stand was willing to entertain many solutions that might have once seemed unthinkable.

Mahir had said his thanks and was bowing a respectable exit. Ahmad turned and gave him a smile, “Please, send me luck.” 

Ozal privately thought it was too earnest a tone to take in public with one’s Mucevhed, and from the faint red dusting the Mucevhed's cheeks he clearly knew it too. 

“Yes, absolutely, I will,” he responded, with more warmth than Ozal expected. 

 

 

Mahir had only been gone for a minute or two before Hasmet arrived. He was a middle-aged man, whose beard had only just started to become flecked with white. His eyes were serious and gray and they moved between Ahmad and Ozal without betraying any emotion.

"Ozal, I am relieved to see that you have recovered," he finally said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I had heard only the worst. And with the tragedy of losing our brother Eryadin --” 

“The Stand has lost a great man,” Ozal nodded deeply. “I do not know why the Mother in her mercy spared me. But today I bring the magician who cured me. He has never been introduced to the Stand before." 

For the first time, Hasmet appeared visibly surprised as he turned to Ahmad. "You were the one to cure our brother Ozal?"

Ahmad gave a low bow. “Yes, bajedi."

Surprise was turning into a look of cold calculation. "Where are you from, young man?"

“I belong to the Dubbhazhel tribe. My father is Musayeib and his father was Bayhas --” 

Hasmet silenced him with a wave of his hand. “There are hundreds of tribes in the Empire, but only a dozen or so are well-known in the capital. Usually those who govern the provinces, you know, or at least wish they did. The Dubbhaz -- the tribe you named I unfortunately do not recognize at all. Which province are you from?”

With more uncertainty, Ahmad answered, “I lived in Bak Liwahar for two years.”

"Oh." Recognition finally flashed across the man's features. "So you are from Wakamir."

"Yes," Ahmad said. "That is what people call it here.”

“That is its name,” Hasmet corrected gently. Ahmad shrugged. The province was very far from the capital; evidently so far that it had little knowledge of its own place in the Empire. 

“Things must be very different here in Kadehir,” Ozal suggested. 

Ahmad made a noise of agreement. "I told Mahir on our first day here that I never saw so much water all at once. Even when you cannot see the ocean, you smell it. And there is so much magic here. It smells a little like the ocean.”

“Well, I've never heard anyone talk about smelling magic before,” Hasmet replied with the good-natured leniency of a teacher confronting a rowdy but promising student. “But if you are looking to learn magic, there is nowhere else in the world that can teach you what we teach here.”

Ozal was about to mention their hopes for Ahmad's magical education, but the words died on his lips when he happened to catch sight of the errand boy from before over Hasmet's shoulders. He was pointing a young man in their direction. That was Ayberk, it had to be. 

Ozal's silence left room for Ahmad to answer instead. “But first, you give me test.” 

Ozal winced. Ahmad was clearly direct when it would have been better to be indirect. But luckily the Master of Magical Education only laughed. “Young man, if you are in such a hurry, by all means, we can start soon. Yes, the Stand requires a test of magical abilities before it will admit a student. There will be three trials before the Stand's judges, who at the end will make a recommendation for admittance. If you are admitted, you can start your magical education at the Stand as soon as tomorrow. All we need to start is my two fellow judges. I'll have them sent for right away.”

“There are three judges now?” Ozal asked in surprise, his attention pulled back to the present conversation. It had been many years since he had taken the exam, of course, but in his day there had been only two judges: one to speak on behalf of the Emperor and the other to speak on behalf of the Gods. 

“These days, the military counts so many of our men in their ranks, it felt prudent to offer them a voice in the exam as well.”

It was a diplomatic answer, and Ozal privately wondered how many times the man had had to recite it. But another glance at Ayberk in the distance and Ozal knew he did not have time to inquire more about this decision. “After you have done that, I was wondering -- since this is Ahmad's first time here and since in your position you must know so much of the history of the Stand --” 

Hasmet picked up the suggestion at once. Turning to Ahmad, he said, “I am happy to give you a small tour while we wait.”

Now that he was sure the Master had his attention elsewhere, Ozal politely took his leave and walked to talk to Ayberk. He had questions that were best kept to one man's ears. 

 

 

The physician was young, very young for the position of authority he had been given. And he gave every appearance of that authority still being foreign to him; he bowed to Ozal twice as he formally introduced himself. “I am so happy to see you restored to health, bajedi. So happy.”

The conversation with Hasmet had tried the limits of Ozal's recovery, and he had hastily sat down under a nearby date tree and tried to pretend it was a choice. He was half-tempted to correct the man when he spoke of recovery, but thought better of it. 

“My sister tells me you treated me during my illness,” Ozal began. The other man nodded.

“She is a very brave woman --,” he started, but Ozal cut him off. His sister would appreciate the truth more than flattery.

“I have also discussed the matter with Doruk. He said you told him I was poisoned.”

Another nod. It stopped when Ozal continued, “But my sister says you were unsure it was poison when you actually examined me.”

The physician kept his expression impassive, but Ozal could see how the blood drained from his face. “Yes, of course. Well, you see, my initial inquiry -- and then there were, of course, the political implications. It would be a terrible thing to burden a young woman with that knowledge.”

“The political implications,” Ozal repeated. The words sounded like a curse in his mouth. “Of course.” 

“You are so well acquainted with the Vaspahanians, and of course the events that led up your affliction were known only to you --” There was almost a pleading tone in Ayberk's voice now. “I had hoped, as I am sure everyone had hoped -- that perhaps in your recovery you would be able to identify who did such a horrible thing.”

“I do not believe I was poisoned,” Ozal said shortly. The man gave a despondent sigh and fell quiet. Ozal glanced at his side, and saw another figure walking towards them. He looked older, and wore the cloak of a priest. The second judge, no doubt. Ozal did not have much time. Perhaps he needed to change his approach. “I understand why you thought it might be poison, though,” he continued, his tone now much more generous.

“I do not know what else it could be. Your case was the strangest I have ever come across. Some people blamed the Shadow or thought it might be some kind of evil, lesser magic. But it did not respond to even our strongest healing spells. And then one day, I was discussing the case with the Imperial Magician himself --” 

This was more promising. “He took an interest in my case?” Ozal asked lightly. 

“I think you'd be hard pressed to find a magician in the all the Empire who didn't,” the physician replied sheepishly. “I was discussing the matter with him, and he reminded me of some of the stranger affairs in the Summer War. There were poisons used in battle that our physicians had never seen before --”

This time Ozal could not contain the coldness in his voice.

“So, it really was Tolga bajedi who said I had been poisoned by the Vaspahanians.” 

The other man blanched. “Ozal bajedi,” he managed to stutter out. “This is the Imperial Magician you are talking about --” 

“Of course, my sincerest apologies,” Ozal forced the words out of his mouth. “He was still just Tolga bajedi when I was stricken.” He made a vague motion with his cane. “I am still recovering. Certain things are returning slower than others.” 

His words tailed off. There was a certain truth to those last words: certain things were really returning to him slower than others. Tolga had not been the Imperial Magician before he had been cursed, yes; but more than that, he had also not been considered a likely choice. While the Emperor nominally chose the man, the members of the Stand voted in secret as to who they would nominate. The ballots were destroyed afterwards, and all forbidden from sowing dissent about the decision afterwards. The man that he and Eryadin favored had been seen as a likely candidate, a safe choice who favored negotiations with the Vaspahanians and some of the more errant provincial leaders. And yet somehow that man had lost and Tolga bajedi had won. 

Ayberk was still speaking in general about his recovery. “There was so much you would have missed,” he concluded.

“Yes, of course,” Ozal snapped. “Who was it who collected the ballots for the Stand's recommendation?”

The other man blinked at him. “For the Imperial Magician? Demir, I believe. But that was months ago, bajedi. Why do you ask?” 

“As you said, I have much to catch up on.” Ozal looked again at the courtyard. The first man had joined with the Master and Ahmad, and now all three were discussing one of the western towers. But off in the distance, Ozal spotted a second man, walking with purpose. He was a kishah: a saber hung by his side. The last judge. Ozal cursed silently.

“It appears that I must take my leave, as I have other business to attend to,” Ozal forced what he hoped was an apologetic smile. “Thank you for everything you've done for me.” A pause in which he remembered himself, and added, “And my family.”

 

 

The three judges assembled, the Master of Magical Education announced that the first trial would take place inside the Mountain Temple. As they walked inside and down the first hallway, he appeared to take the opportunity to continue his earlier tour.

“This temple is one of the most important buildings in all of Kadehir, and to magicians probably one of the most important in the Empire itself. It's also the oldest building in Kadehir, having been carved about two hundred years ago.”

He might have meant the words to impress Ahmad, but the younger man just looked surprised. “Such a young city. In Bak Liwahar, families go back a thousand years.”

Ozal noted the displeased looks that passed between the other two judges, the kishah and the priest. He hoped Ahmad did too, but if he did, he gave no indication. Hasmet grimaced briefly and then tried to twitch his features into something more pleasant. 

“I suppose the Empire is new compared to some of her territory, but she started life as a child of the Vaspahanian Empire. Has Ozal told you that story?” 

Ahmad shook his head. “I know it from --” he started to explain, but the other man had already started his next lesson.

“It all started with a few brave sailors who crossed the ocean in search of something they couldn't quite explain. At that point, Kadehir was nothing, just a mountain range cutting off the rest of the continent from the shore. But these men saw potential in her. They would write later how the shores were beacons, luring them with the pull of all the magic that exists in the rocks and soil of Kadehir. They didn't know it was magic at the time, but once they discovered what they could do with it, they carved a new land for themselves. They opened the port and leveled the mountains. And then they formed the Stand, to honor the Gods and train others in the art of magic.”

Ozal knew the story well, but he still liked hearing it. It seemed both fantastical and bittersweet -- the settlers had come so far on a dream, and now the land on which they landed seemed always at the throat of the land from which they had came.

Ahmad's feelings on the story seemed much simpler. He just nodded and muttered, half to himself, “Finally, something that makes sense.”

“That was the start of our Empire. The settlers intermarried with the local tribes. The first Emperor started to grow his army and expand further inland. For each city he conquered, he added to both his own Palace and the Stand.”

“But expanding stops at Bak Liwahar,” Ahmad said Hasmet eyed him warily. The foreign magician's expression was one of mild curiosity; perhaps he did not know the full weight of his words in Kadehir. What a pity all three judges did. “I know because that is where the caravans stop,” Ahmad clarified unnecessarily.

“Yes, the Empire expanded all the way to Wakamir. But for all our ambitions, the province has proven impassable.” Ozal added in his mind what the Master had left unsaid: the first magicians might have been able to bend the Earth itself to their whims, but the Stand had lost that ability generations ago. 

In a lighter tone, Hasmet continued, “If you look above, the green gemstones set in that chandelier are from your province. The idea was that this temple would have a treasure from each province. I'm partial to the blue tiles, which use a dye only found in Moukhtieh.”

They had stopped before a pair of heavy iron doors. Ozal knew they led to the Inner Courtyard. He had been there so many times before, but still even seeing the entrance could make his heart feel lighter.

“Each of these treasures are precious, of course. But the temple also holds the treasure of Kadehir itself, and those are perhaps the most precious of all. They are just behind these doors, and are the site of your first trial.”

 

 

The walls surrounding them were tall, and little light from outside made its way in. Instead, most of the light grew from the center of the courtyard.

The seven god-trees grew in a circle in the heart of the Stand. Even after all these years, the sight of them still stole Ozal's breath. They were beautiful, growing as tall as three men standing atop each other's shoulders with bark that was completely smooth and unblemished. Trunk, branch and leaf all shared the same coloring: an unnatural milky white whose faint glow threw shadows against the tiled floors. It was the color of magic, so concentrated that it became visible to the naked eye.

“The first trial takes place in this holy site,” the first judge, the priest, stepped forward to explain. “As you can see, the Seven Gods have marked these trees.” He walked towards the grove, and when he stood below the canopy of the god-trees he walked past each and named them. Closest to them stood the Maiden, with her delicate branches; then the stately Lord with his wide trunk and by his side the bowing Servant; the Sage, who bent like the back of an old man; the finally, the Mother flush with leaves and flowers and the Crone with her branches almost bare. Looming over all them was the tallest, the only one on whom nothing grew: the Shadow.

“Legend has it that the original settlers planted seven trees, and the Gods chose to rest in them and make them their own,” the priest continued. That was the orthodoxy. Some people -- either the more devout or the less educated, depending on who you asked -- even believed the gods themselves lived in these seven trees. Ozal had never subscribed to so literal a belief, but like most faithful Kadehirden he believed the shape and forms of the trees was evidence of both the holy existence of the Seven and the divine status of the city.

The priest walked back in front of the Sage. “All magic comes from the blessing of the Gods. So for your step towards becoming a full magician, you must ask for a blessing.” 

He reached out his hand, and a lone branch of the god-tree moved downwards until it grazed the tips of his fingers. Priests almost always asked the blessings of the Sage or the Crone. Most magicians would ask the Lord, although Ozal had heard asking the blessings of the Maiden was popular with soldiers.

“Now, young man. It is your turn. Choose wisely which God you would ask.”

Ahmad said nothing but walked around the ring of the trees. He looked each one up and down, evaluating carefully. It was a momentous choice, and Ozal was glad he seemed to be taking the task seriously. 

After a minute, he turned back to the judges. “You arrange the Gods differently in Kadehir.”

In the quiet of the Sanctum, you could hear how sharply the judges drew in their breaths. 

“That we arrange?” the soldier muttered. “The Gods themselves chose their homes.” 

“I am sure it is only a language barrier,” Ozal said quickly. Ahmad could be as gifted as he liked, but the Stand would never accept a magician who insulted the Gods. Turning towards Ahmad, and speaking slowly so that there was no risk of being misunderstood, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“We Dubbhazhel worship the Sun first,” here he pointed to the Lord. “And his family. Next to him, his wife.” The Mother. “Then his daughter.” The Maiden. “Then his son.” The Servant. “And then his parents” The Sage and Crone. “Then there is the Moon, who gardens the stars and is very lonely because he has no family of his own.” He pointed to the Shadow. After a pause, he added, quietly, “My mother liked him most.”

A stunned silence greeted his explanation.

“The Empire has grown so large that perhaps, on its borders, a proper theological understanding might be lacking,” Ozal offered up as explanation, ever the diplomat. 

Perhaps thinking he had not yet made the situation bad enough, Ahmad offered, “Maybe if you arranged the trees differently, their magic become stronger.”

That was enough to break the silence that had fallen upon the judges. “Of what madness does he speak?” Hasmet turned to Ozal, almost snarling. 

“What do you mean -- their magic would be stronger?” Ozal felt the hairs on his arm stand up. The truth was the god-trees had been shrinking for years now. But Ozal had said nothing about this, not to Ahmad, not even to his own sister. It was the kind of discussion that was not supposed to reach beyond the walls of the Stand. It was fodder for apocalyptic dreamers: magic was ending, and the gods were abandoning Kadehir.

“The magic from the trees is...weak,” Ahmad explained. “Like drawing water from a well where someone threw stones. Only one tree has all its magic. That is why it is so tall.” 

He pointed to the Shadow.

A cold shiver passed through Ozal. The Shadow had always been the tallest of the trees, but had it actually grown taller over the years as its brethren declined?

“Enough of this,” the Master of Magical Education said at last. “Strange desert superstitions have no place here. Either ask a favor of the Gods, or consider this trial failed.” He turned to Ozal and said, not entirely under his breath, “I thought you said you had brought a healer, not a heathen.”

Ozal drew in a sharp breath, but if Ahmad heard he gave no indication. Instead, he merely shrugged. “The healthiest, then.” He reached out a hand and a branch from the Shadow unfurled to reach it.

Usually the passing of the first trial was met with applause; only a stunned silence greeted Ahmad now.

“On to the second trial, then,” the Master said weakly.


	6. The Stand - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the first time since i posted the first two chapters, i was able to get two updates in the same month! i'm still aiming to update about once a month, but hopefully this won't be the only time i can beat that schedule.

The nursery was much changed since Mahir had called it home, and it took him a few moments searching to find a window with a decent view. He thought to ask, but he was not eager to speak with anyone here who might recognize him. It had been several years, but the Stand did not raise that many Mucevheden. At least he had the advantage of being one of the few boys above thirteen to walk these halls. A male Mucevhed of Mahir’s age here was most likely on an errand for his magician, and thus unlikely to be disturbed.

Finally, he found a promising window while walking up a winding staircase and looked out. The ocean dominated his view, stretching far against the horizon. But closer to the nursery lay the training grounds, where Mahir could see the figures of magicians and their Mucevheden practicing all levels of magic. White light popped and crackled as students called up small spells. Six years ago, Mahir had watched a similar scene with a fierce envy. He had been fifteen and passed over by more than a dozen new magicians. The Mucevheden handlers had started to get worried that he was becoming too old to bond with a magician. A failure of good Stand breeding. 

And now he stood here, still watching the training yards, two masters later. Absentmindedly he fiddled with the collar around his neck. Of course Mahir had only been bonded in any real sense to Savaner. The bonding ceremony took a very experienced magician to perform, and Ahmad hadn’t seen the point of trying it anyway. The one Mahir was wearing now was a fake, acquired en route to Kadehir. He would have felt guilty for the forgery, as a Mucevhed was supposed to wear his collar until death, except his real collar had been taken by Savaner before he sold him off. And if Mahir could be in a powerful magician's home for the past few days without the man noticing, then clearly there was no harm in pretending. Mahir might just be a little careful letting anyone in the Stand find out the truth, at least until they had accepted Ahmad’s perhaps eccentric way of doing magic.

He could see Ahmad walking into the training grounds now, the rough cloth of his cloak and turban easy to spot against the finery that Ozal and the three judges wore. They appeared to stop and Mahir strained to see if he could make out any details about what this next trial entailed.

He was so engrossed that he missed that a man had walked up behind him until the sound of a throat being cleared alerted him. Mahir turned quickly and the blood left his face. He scrambled to touch his forehead to the floor, no easy feat on stairs. But he stayed bowing until the Master of the Nursery bid him stand.

“My child, it must have been a few years since you were last here,” he said, and Mahir averted his eyes. “What is your name?”

“I am Rifki, bajedi,” Mahir said at once. It should have been difficult to make himself lie to the man who oversaw the raising and education of the Stand's Mucevheden, but Mahir had several years practice of lying to his betters.

“Rifki,” the man repeated, half to himself, and just when Mahir had started to worry that perhaps the senior magician could see through his lie, the man sighed, “In my younger days, I tried to remember the name of every Mucevhed who passed through our gates. But now I am so old, and I struggle to remember even the name of our current offerings.”

It was true that the man had seen a great many years. The beard that fell past his elbows was almost as white as his turban, and even his bushy eyebrows had lost all their color. Like Ozal, he walked with a cane, although his was gilt with silver and appeared to have seen many more days. Mahir had only seen the man once or twice before: daily life in the nursery was managed by either the Mucevheden women or a few of the Emperor’s eunuchs. But Mahir remembered that the Master of the Nursery had been old even when he was a child. By now he must be ancient.

“I heard there was an exam offered today, someone unusual, and thought I might inspect our offerings to see which were ready. But then I saw you watching so intently, and curiosity got the better of me. What do you see? Show me.”

Mahir stood in front of the window, and pointed to where Ahmad and the other magicians were standing. Ahmad was sitting down, and next to him lay a pile of bricks. Mahir frowned. This was not the kind of magic he had been hoping the Stand would test -- but if he concentrated, Ahmad should do fine. 

“An interesting man,” the Master said after a minute. “He is not from any of the magical families. Where did we find him then?” At Mahir's answer, the Master repeated, “Wakamir? Now that is interesting. There's very little magic in that soil.”

“Yes, that is why the Empire ends at the feet of the Wakamiri mountains.”

It was a child's answer, showing off knowledge in hope of praise. The Master made a knowing hum, evidently satisfied with Mahir's education. He was staring at Mahir with an open curiosity, and Mahir felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. Stupid, stupid. He had been trying to avoid any close interaction with a magician today, and now his mouth had taken on a life of its own in front of one of the most powerful men in the Stand.

Mahir drew his lips tighter together, but it was too late. “How do you know this man?”

“He is my master,” Mahir answered at once, and then bit his tongue to stop any more nonsense from following those words.

The Master made a contemplative noise. “And how good a magician is your master, little one?”

“Very good,” the words tumbled out before Mahir could stop them, and the tips of his cheeks burned. “There are some things he struggles with, of course. He came to the Stand to learn. But he is very talented -- he even cured Ozal bajedi's affliction.” A Mucevhed was supposed to love his master, and Ahmad was an easy master to love. But Mahir hoped he didn't sound too much the part of the moon-eyed Mucevhed.

Mahir was relieved when the Master only appeared to be half-listening to his response. “I wonder if he saw you,” the man muttered half under his breath. Mahir peeked his head out the window. Ahmad was still sitting, and not a single brick appeared to have moved. But even worse, Mahir realized with a start that Ahmad was staring right at the window. He ducked his head back inside and felt his cheeks burn. Ahmad had said he had wanted Mahir to watch him, but surely even he wasn't so lovestruck that he would stop the exam to stare at Mahir.

“An interesting man indeed,” the Master said, and Mahir hoped it was amusement in his voice. He bowed low again as the man departed. Then he stood back up quietly and did not move for the next few minutes, half wondering if his heart was beating loud enough to attract any more trouble his way. 

By the time Mahir had recovered enough to look outside again, Ahmad and the judges had moved. Mahir found them again standing by the edge of the training grounds, where the land of the Stand gave way to the ocean. Ahmad had waded half up to his knees in the surf.

 _Can people really control this?_ Ahmad had asked on his first day in Kadehir, when Mahir had shown him the ocean and explained how the Stand directed the tide. _It has such a strange rhythm. It seems difficult._

Ahmad had always been an honest man; Mahir did not have to look so hard to see that Ahmad was struggling with the task before him. Of course, the judges must realize this was not a fair test. Ahmad was not like other students, who had grown up with the ebb and flow of the ocean almost in their blood. These were the most enlightened men in the city. If there was anyone that could see Ahmad’s potential, it would be them. 

Despite his promise to Ahmad, Mahir turned away and started to walk down the stairway before the last trial was over. His heart dragged on the ground behind him.

 

 

It took a few minutes for Mahir to find the judges again. They had gathered near the entrance to the Inner Courtyard. He hid behind one of the many pillars in the hall, straining his ears to hear what the men said.

“Representing the Emperor's military,” he heard distantly, “I recommend no admittance.”

Another voice started to object. Ozal bajedi, no doubt. But he did not get far before someone else requested silence and then added, “Representing the Emperor, I recommend no admittance.”

That was at least two of three. The only hope for Ahmad now was if the third judge disagreed, and could somehow change the mind of the other two --

“Let the Gods speak through me. I recommend no admittance.”

Mahir's shoulders sagged as if under a sudden weight. All that Ahmad had done, the distance they had travelled, all of it had been for nothing. Blood beat a terrible rhythm in his ears. Distantly he heard Ozal bajedi arguing, politely but forcefully, but the only voice in his mind was Ahmad talking to him before the exam. 

_I’m beginning to think that in Kadehir, there might be a difference between knowing magic and being a magician._

Mahir closed his eyes but opened them after a minute when he heard Ahmad say, “Oh, there you are.” He still spoke in Kadehirden; Mahir found himself wondering why he still wanted to practice, now that the Stand had rejected him. Mahir searched Ahmad's expression. There was a set of his jaw that meant he wasn't happy, but his eyes held no fire. 

“I am sorry about --” Mahir started, but Ahmad waved his hand.

“I want to walk a bit. Get away. At the rate Ozal speaks, I have a few minutes before he notices.”

Ahmad started to walk and Mahir fell in step next to him.

“You could always try again, after a time. There is nothing that forbids a man from applying again,” he started, cautious, wondering if it would upset Ahmad to discuss the matter. Maybe without the Stand, Ahmad would want to return to Bak Liwahar. There were worse fates; Mahir felt no dread at the thought of returning. Just a sharp regret that he had led Ahmad so far from home for nothing.

“I'm not trying again,” Ahmad said, switching suddenly to Wakamiri. He added, “Please don't be so sad about that. I'll learn magic some other way. But I don't want to return here. It gives me goosebumps.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is something -- wrong about this place, and the whole time those men chattered on as if nothing was amiss.” They were walking through the hallways, approaching the entrance leading back to the courtyard from where they had first arrived. Ahmad and Mahir were of similar heights, but Mahir found that right now he had to hurry to keep up.

“The Stand is the center of magic in Kadehir,” Mahir frowned. His eyes couldn’t help but dart around, looking to see if anyone approached. It was unlikely anyone in these halls spoke Wakamiri, but the way Ahmad spoke invited excess caution. “What could be wrong with it?”

“The trees,” Ahmad started.

“The god-trees,” Mahir corrected softly, using their Kadehirden names.

Ahmad brushed off the correction. “Yes, those things. They were all half-drained of life, but the minute I said anything to that effect the men treated me like I was a lunatic.”

Despite the situation, Mahir felt the side of his mouth twist upwards. “It is a little heretical to say such things,” he admitted.

“Is the truth heretical?” Ahmad sighed in resignation. They had arrived at the entrance; Ahmad did not walk far outside before he stopped and turned his attention on Mahir. “And another thing -- were you watching from a window on a tower to the west? Very high up, not so far from the top.”

“The third floor,” Mahir provided. “I saw you looking. I thought you were looking for me.”

“I did see you, but I was surprised you were there. I hadn't meant to look for you. I couldn’t really feel your presence until I knew where to concentrate. That strange material in the floors, no doubt. But there was a man next to you -- do you know him?”

Ahmad listened intently as Mahir explained who the Master of the Nursery was and his role at the Stand. When Mahir had finished, he said, “I felt his magic. It's rotten.”

“Rotten?” Mahir echoed. “How can magic be rotten?”

“I don't know, but I've felt it before. The color and taste of it are hard to forget. It belongs to a very bad man.”

Mahir blinked in confusion. “The Master of the Nursery is a good man.” He had only seen the man a few times growing up, but he had always remembered the man as kind and patient.

“A good man who raises children to be slaves?” Ahmad raised an eyebrow.

“It is not like that,” Mahir said. “No Mucevhed has been born outside the Stand in a generation, but still many parents hope their children will be born with magic's touch because of the life of privilege a Mucevhed leads.” It was not the first time Mahir had told Ahmad this. It hadn't convinced him before, and it didn't seem to convince him now.

“Was your last life one of privilege, Mahir?” Ahmad’s tone was soft, but there was an unyielding look in his eyes.

“That was -- different,” the words tasted like ash on Mahir’s mouth. “Anyway, I don't understand. How can you know he's a bad man? I don't even understand how you sensed his presence. I thought you said you had a hard time seeing magic from far away in Kadehir.”

“Yes. I saw you from a hundred miles away in Bak Liwahar, and now here it feels like you have to be right in front of me before I see you. But that's exactly the problem.” Ahmad’s voice took on a terrible urgency. “That's why I didn't see this man until today.”

Mahir frowned, and he said, “What do you mean?” at the same time there was a faint echo of someone -- it must have been Ozal -- calling Ahmad’s name.

“I felt that magic at the foot of the al-Jerdi mountains,” Ahmad explained quickly. “I was a boy at the time. I hadn't met you, I barely knew what magic was.”

Mahir felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Ahmad!” the voice called again. “Where did you run off to?”

“That's impossible,” Mahir said back. “There is no magic in Wakamir, particularly not the magic of an elderly magician of the Stand.”

Ahmad answered grimly. “I know. I will explain more later.” He turned and opened the door inside. “Bajedi, here.”

“You left while I was still arguing your case,” Ozal’s cross reply bounced around the hallway. Mahir heard the tapping of his cane growing louder.

“Apologies,” Ahmad answered. He was not a particularly good liar; he did not sound in the least bit sympathetic. Mahir gave a polite bow as Ozal walked out the door, but Ozal was not looking at him.

“There must be someone in the Stand with an ounce of sense,” he complained. “I'll request different judges next time, someone who can clearly tell that you have a great deal of talent and might be more open to a -- well, let us say, a more unusual student.”

“Mahir mentioned that I might try again sometime soon.” It took all of Mahir’s self-control not to gape at Ahmad when he spoke. Ahmad’s face was the very portrait of earnestness. Evidently he wasn’t always the bad liar Mahir had thought him to be.

Ozal looked contemplative. “Time to study, practice, perhaps better understand a few things about Kadehir and the way things are done here --”

“I do want to know how things are done in Kadehir,” Ahmad echoed with such a savage sincerity that Mahir quite forgot himself and stared at Ahmad openly.

“Yes, well, it is a good idea, Ahmad. But perhaps now, to start, we should go home -- where did that groomsman go?”

 

 

Nadide had spent the past few hours in the heat of the kitchen, dictating to Kadim what he should fetch from the market, baking her mother's favorite cakes and brewing the family's best tea. She realized too late they probably needed to visit the baker again sometime soon.

_If I had been the one to go to the market, I would have passed the man and remembered._

But of course her brother had not wanted her to go. She hadn’t either, not really. It was better for a woman to stay inside the shelter of her own home. When Nadide went outside, she received strange looks -- or worse, pity. 

But it would be a while before they could afford to send a maidservant on these errands. And until then the family needed to eat. 

When Kadim called to tell her that her brother had returned, she hastily put together a tray of food and tea to present. It would be nice to have a celebration, even if it was only a modest one. Until only a few days ago, the concept had started to feel foreign.

She walked out of the kitchen just in time to see her brother storm up the stairs, Kadim trailing anxiously at his heels. “He failed,” was all the explanation Ozal gave. 

Nadide turned to see Ahmad and his Mucevhed lingering near the front door. “Please, sit,” she said. Her head felt suddenly, nauseatingly empty. Yet still the force of routine made her put down the tray, serve Ahmad, and then sit down herself.

Ahmad did not seem to share Ozal's fury. Instead, he just sniffed at the tea with a look of mild curiosity. 

“I do not understand,” Nadide said at last. 

“There were three judges and no one liked me,” Ahmad responded. He talked as if remarking upon what the Emperor had decided for the weather. 

“I do not understand at all.” Nadide paused. The polite thing would be to retire, leave this man alone, not burden him with this matter any more. 

Nadide was too disappointed to be polite. 

“A half dozen of the Stand’s best magicians came through this door and told me they had never seen anything quite like what had happened to Ozal. The only advice they could give me was to pray that the Mother show him mercy. But you were able to help. And now those same men are saying, what, that you cannot be a magician?”

“They say I am no magician because they never saw anything like me,” Ahmad said simply. He looked at her with something like pity and if he did not stop Nadide thought she might go mad.

“Such foolishness,” Nadide said softly, with a rueful shake of her head. 

Something seemed to occur to Ahmad. His look turned to one of curiosity. “You said you wanted to learn magic. Do you still want to learn magic from a man the Stand failed?”

Nadide turned towards the stairs. Ozal and Kadim were gone. If she listened intensely, she could even hear the familiar creaks and groans of the floorboards as Ozal paced his room. It was such an empty house they had now. 

Perhaps now it could be to her advantage.

“Yes, of course,” she answered at once.

 

After only a few sips of tea, Nadide had excused herself and climbed the steps to see Ozal. Her brother cast a critical glance at the tray she carried.

“It hardly seems like an occasion to celebrate,” he said with reproach in his voice.

“Like you, brother, I assumed a different outcome from today,” she answered back as she set the tray down. She took a cake for herself. Ozal hesitated but also grabbed one after a minute. When he did, Nadide noticed the papers and quill lying in front of him. 

“Are you writing the Stand to see if they will reconsider?”

Ozal shook his head. “No. Ahmad said he will study more, so now his fate is in the hands of the Gods. There are other matters to write about now.”

Her brother spoke with a reluctance that finished the rest of his story for him. “You are writing about me,” she sighed in defeat.

“If something was to happen to me, I need to know you will be well cared for. I have written to some of my friends in the Stand, saying you were open to courtship.” He was watching her carefully, no doubt to see just how much she seethed at the news. “There will not be so many bachelors the longer you wait.” 

“Is there anyone you have in mind?” Nadide bit her tongue on any venomous words. It would not be so bad to marry a member of the Stand. Over the years she had seen several aunts travel far to live in their husband's family home, but Nadide had always hoped when she married she would stay in Kadehir. Perhaps it was childish to want to stay rooted in the soil on which she had grown, but Nadide could not imagine living anywhere else. 

“No suitable suitors that I know of,” Ozal answered. “But I trust my friends to find a suitable match.” 

“When I am wed, Kadim will be your only companion.” It was a large house, and before death and marriage had had taken their tolls on the familial ranks, it had been filled with life. But now it felt unnaturally still. Nadide could not imagine the house even emptier. 

“You worry about me too much,” Ozal said, with a generous smile and all the confidence of a man who had not watched himself lie in death's grip for close to a month. 

 

The mistress of the house did not stay with them long. She seemed half preoccupied with her own thoughts anyway. Still, Mahir watched her retreating form until he was sure she had passed out of earshot. 

“Our hosts both seem surprised by the Stand's decision,” Mahir started lightly. “They have great confidence in your abilities.” 

Ahmad wrinkled his nose. “My abilities were not the problem.” In a gentler tone, he added, “I am serious about learning more magic. I will need to.”

“Is this still because of the Master of the Nursery?” Mahir could not quite keep the apprehension out of his voice. Ahmad said he would explain, but what he had said so far defied any explanation that Mahir could provide.

“I'll explain by starting at the beginning,” Ahmad said with a nod, as if to acknowledge Mahir's private doubts. “Seven years ago, my nephew and I were grazing our flocks at the bottom of the al-Jerdi mountains. This was the youngest son of my father’s second brother. He must have been seven or so. Still very young, still just learning how to guide the goats. I was there to help him learn.” 

Mahir nodded, unsure where this could be going. 

“There was a sandstorm. Not so unusual for that time of year. But I had never felt anything like it before, and I have not felt anything like it since. It was stronger than it should have been. And the stench -- that rotting stench was everywhere. I didn't know what was happening at the time. I barely knew what magic was, I didn't even know how to protect myself, my nephew, my flock.” 

Ahmad paused. Mahir felt his tongue drying in his throat. 

“What happened to your nephew?” He asked quietly. He suspected he knew the answer. 

“The Gods took him that day. They almost took me too. I was scared, furious. When we buried him, I swore on oath in front of everyone that I would avenge him.”

Mahir started to frown. “So when you said you wanted to learn the Stand's weather-binding because of the sandstorms in Wakamir…” 

“I meant that one in particular,” Ahmad nodded. “It was difficult to describe. When I swore that oath, my family thought I was just delusional with grief.” His lip quirked without amusement. “Even now, you do not believe me.” 

“I believe you,” Mahir said at once, more out of loyalty than conviction. Ahmad did not hide his skepticism. “The story is a little strange,” Major conceded. 

“Yes, but I know what I felt. It was that man's magic. And if the Stand can control the weather and the tides, why should a sandstorm be so difficult?” 

He shrugged, apparently having all the proof he needed. Mahir was less convinced. “But the Master of the Nursery is a very old man. Even seven years ago, it is hard to imagine him being healthy enough to travel to the edge of the Empire.”

Ahmad chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Perhaps you're right. Maybe someone else here has that same rotten stench. Perhaps there is a corrupted source, or something. It seems possible. After all, as everyone has said, there is much about Kadehir I still don't know.” Even as he spoke, though, the doubt in his eyes gave way to a cold resolution. “But I will find the truth, whether the Stand teaches me magic or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone commented on the last chapter that they were excited to see a school of magic setup -- i am sorry to say that from the beginning i never intended ahmad to actually be a student at the stand, so hopefully this latest development isn't too disappointing for either that person or anyone else who thought the same. i would definitely be interested in hearing more in the comments, though! as always, thanks for reading


	7. An Explanation

That night, Nadide waited until Ozal had retired into his quarters before she snuffed out all the candles in her room except the one she carried with her to visit the foreign magician’s room. 

Ahmad sat cross-legged on the floor and when she entered he bid her to sit across from him.

“I told you I have never taught magic and no one ever taught me," he started. There was a hesitancy in his voice, as if he half-expected Nadide to call off the arrangement right then and there. As if Nadide had a choice of tutors available to her. 

When she nodded, Ahmad continued, “You did magic before. How did it feel?"

Nadide should have expected the question, but still her mouth went dry. "It was when my brother was ill," she started. No, that wasn't right. "When he was cursed." Even the memory of those days could make her stomach twist into knots. Maybe Ahmad knew; there was an infuriating patience in the way he looked at her. She could not meet his gaze, and dropped her gaze to the floor instead. "The minute they brought him home, I felt something -- wrong, somehow, in his chest. None of the physicians, whether they were from the Stand or elsewhere, could find anything amiss. And when I asked Kadim, my uncle, or our guests if they felt anything amiss, all I got were strange looks." 

She'd learned to stop asking, lest they think her a lunatic and call a physician for her too. Even hearing herself speak now, the words sounded like madness. 

But Ahmad only asked, "What did you do after that?"

"I had this idea -- strange, I don’t know where it came from -- that whatever it was inside of him, it wanted to expand. And I didn't want it to. So every time I saw him, I concentrated on it. And when I did -- it seemed to shrink back."

So many people had called on her during those months. So many people had inquired about her brother's health, and even a few asked after her own. She had never breathed a word of this story to any of them. Why would she, when she knew what they would say? _What a pity. A fragile woman, grief has robbed her of her senses._

Ahmad did not have anything to say to that. So she continued, “It never went away entirely. And every night, it was just as strong as it had been the day before. So every morning, I would visit my brother's side -- and concentrate.” 

It had seemed useless. More than useless. But while Ozal had lingered in that accursed state,  
Nadide had not dared to stop. It was only when Ahmad had come to Kadehir that she had found relief. 

"You did the right thing. It kept him alive." Nadide had been expecting disbelief at her story, but Ahmad just looked contemplative. The fact made her smile, just a little. “Now that your brother is well, how to do it again...hmm. I learned magic doing small things. Perhaps you should start like that.” 

He stood up to grab something lying not too far away -- it appeared to be a small candlestick -- and set it down halfway between them. 

“Try to knock that down with magic.” 

Her smile faltered. She gave it a long stare. 

Such a small thing, compared to curing a magical ailment, directing the tides, or commanding the weather. And yet the candlestick still seemed distressingly solid and immovable when she looked at it.

“Is this how you started, knocking candlesticks over at night?” she asked softly. 

“Not candlesticks, my family did not have that much money,” Ahmad scoffed, as if he found the very idea absurd. “But other things, yes.” Remembering something fondly, he smiled. “Everything else. My father's first wife thought we were haunted because all the time things fell and moved when no one touched them. She called three exorcisms.” 

Nadide looked again at the candlestick. She had grown up hearing stories about young boys causing mischief for their parents before they were finally old enough to be taught by the Stand. Even a continent away and knowing nothing of these stories, evidently Ahmad had been the same. Nadide had been raised to be proper and polite, and had never seen reason to give her mother alarm. Did that make her less of a magician? 

And there was another objection on her tongue. “I do not have a Mucevhed,” she said, after some hesitation. 

Ahmad frowned. “You know you do not need a Mucevhed to do magic. You did magic before. I did magic before I met Mahir.” 

_But now that you have met him, how much time have you spent apart?_ She wondered, but kept her lips tightly sealed around the question. She knew how magicians were about their Mucevheden; she had grown up with Ozal always sighing over Kadim’s curls. Nothing Nadide could say would change her situation. Instead, she asked, “Whose magic did you use, then?” 

“Before Mahir? Everyone.” Ahmad shrugged. “Anything alive can have magic. Usually small. But if you can see it, you can use it. The only magic I cannot use is my own. Even the goats I tended had magic. Very, very small -- it takes a whole herd to nudge a kid. But still. It can happen.” He frowned as a thought appeared to occur to him. “Actually, it should be easy for you to see magic. There is so much here. Even the ground itself has magic. Very different from home.” 

“I’ve never been outside the city, so I don’t know how it is elsewhere. Everyone talks about how much magic there is in Kadehir, though.” She smiled faintly at the thought. “It has roots here, and they run deep.” 

“Yes,” Ahmad answered, clearly sharing none of Nadide fondness for that fact. “Well, practice. Then you might see. Until then, focus on something easier. Mahir has a lot of magic, try to see it on him.” 

His Mucevhed had been sitting patiently on his right hand side. He drew himself up a little taller at the mention of his name. 

“Close your eyes, concentrate.” 

Reluctantly, Nadide followed Ahmad’s instructions. With her eyes closed, her hearing seemed sharper than it had been. She could make out footsteps in the distance and her back stiffened suddenly. What if her brother had decided he wanted to speak with Ahmad? What if he sent Kadim to check on his guest? If he were to discover his unmarried sister alone with a strange man at night -- 

“You are not concentrating,” Ahmad reproached. 

The footsteps stopped. Nadide took one long breath and then another. 

“Think about how you felt, when you looked at your brother.”

She did not want to remember those feelings. The disgust. The despair. That was not magic. It could not be. Magic was supposed to be a wonderous thing. If Nadide had not felt that at the time, perhaps there was some defect in her. 

“Probably the hair on your neck stood up,” Ahmad continued, oblivious to her doubts. There was a fondness in his voice that had not been there before. He might not love Kadehir, but he did love magic.

Nadide tried harder to remember. Perhaps they had, perhaps they had not. More than likely she had never even noticed in the first place -- after all, when she had not known if her brother would live or die, why should she spare a thought for the hairs on the back of her neck? 

Fear had eaten her from the inside out those months. Even now that her brother was recovered, it had still not completely left her. Nadide took another, steadying breath. That did not make the fear useful now, though. She needed to cast it aside. She needed to remember. 

There had been -- another feeling. Different than that dread thing living in her brother’s chest. A chill against her skin. A wet touch that left no trace of itself. It had reminded Nadide of when her mother was alive, and the two of them would walk by the shore just after the sun rose and the early fog rolled in from the sea. That was why it had been so easy to forget; she had thought it was just a memory, made vivid by grief and loss. 

Remembering it now, she wasn’t so sure. 

The more she thought about the feeling, the more sure she was that it was in this room now. She closed her eyes, concentrated, really concentrated this time. It was here. A kind of fog, hanging in the air. And Ahmad was right; it clung heaviest to Mahir. 

The fog was such a pleasant thing. Nadide wanted to touch it. She imagined herself reaching out, trying to grasp it for herself. 

But the fog shrank inwards. It inched out of her grasp, moved closer towards Mahir. Closer towards Ahmad. 

Nadide opened her eyes. Her chest felt very tight, and she did not trust herself to talk. Ahmad was still sitting, gazing at her with that patient expression as if any moment Nadide might surprise him. But her gaze slid to his right. She looked at Mahir instead. He was staring into the distance, but not at her. His expression was carefully, studiedly neutral. 

A well-trained Mucevhed. And whatever Ahmad might say, like a well-trained Mucevhed, Mahir reserved his magic for his master. 

Nadide stood up all at once. Disappointed weighted heavily on her shoulders. 

“You are going?” Ahmad called out in surprise. “We will try again tomorrow, then.” 

“Tomorrow,” Nadide echoed bitterly. Tomorrow, as if it were only more time she needed. _Will your Mucevhed have changed by tomorrow?_ she wanted to ask. But that would only draw Ahmad’s ire. And if he decided he did not want to teach Nadide, there was no one else from whom she could learn. 

So Nadide swallowed her temper and forced her expression into something more pleasant. “Yes,” she nodded. “Tomorrow, we will practice again.” 

It felt impossible that their next session should go any differently, but Nadide had too few options to worry about impossible. 

 

 

The next morning, Ozal drafted a letter to Demir requesting a visit. He filled it with the usual pleasantries and said nothing about the only subject that mattered, the election of Tolga bajedi. When he finished, Kadim -- perhaps now resigned to his new role as the first Stand-born errand boy -- picked up the letter and made to leave. 

“Find someone to deliver this,” Ozal instructed. “I want you here this morning.” 

They had not shared much time together in private since Ozal’s recovery, and Ozal was sure that in the time they had had, he had not been pleasant company. So he wasn’t surprised at either the hope or the hunger in Kadim’s eyes at his words. All the more pity to see it morph into something else entirely when he said, “I need to practice magic.” 

“I know you are worried,” Kadim started, obviously biting down harsher words. “But you are pushing yourself too hard. If you take more time to rest --” 

“I have rested enough for a lifetime,” Ozal responded.

The fact was that he had yet to do even a simple spell since he had woken. Perhaps Kadim thought if only he laid about more, that would change; Ozal knew only practice could make him better. 

The morning brought only disappointment to them both. It did not matter how hard Ozal concentrated or how much Kadim fretted over him: he could not call on his Mucevhed’s magic. His mouth tasted of ash every time he tried. Even pooling magic at his fingertips -- something he had learned in his first year at the Stand! -- caused no flash of white light, but did have sweat beading on his forehead. The push and pull of magic, once as familiar a rhythm to him as his own breathing, was not there. He’d had more control and power when he had been a child than he did now.

Eventually, as morning slipped away and there was no sign of him downstairs, Nadide came to check on him. “Is everything alright?” she asked as soon as Kadim had let her inside. 

Ozal debated his answer for a minute. His sister looked tired, and worry deepened the lines of her face. It would just be cruel to tell her the truth. “I am fine,” he said. “I just needed a bit of time to write.” 

He sat down, trying not to let his labored breathing make his lie too obvious. 

“You should be resting,” Nadide said. “I know you sent for someone else today. All these letters, all these guests. It is too much, too soon.” 

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Ozal muttered, with a sideways glance at Kadim. 

“Then you should try listening,” she scolded. 

“Someone murdered Eryadin bajedi; they tried to murder me. They should be hanged, but they walk free. And in the face of that, you and Kadim want me to -- what, loiter in my own house? I need answers, Nadide. When the Empire’s justice comes for the man who did this to me, then I will rest.” 

“If you push yourself too hard, you will do your enemy’s work for him,” Nadide countered.

The words echoed in Ozal’s head after Nadide left; they continued to echo even when Demir finally came to call. Ozal would never have told his sister, but he did feel weak. Still, he forced himself to stand to greet the man, and tried to hide the relief he felt when both of them finally sat. 

The man who had collected the votes for the Stand’s nomination was tall and had a proud bearing, but he could not hide his youth or inexperience. His Mucevhed bowed more often than the situation demanded, and the white turban seemed to fit uneasily on his master’s head. But even more than that, Ozal thought bitterly, a less green member of the Stand wouldn’t have gawked so openly when he set his cane in front of him on the floor. 

“I am glad to see you recovered,” Demir started. “I called on your sister once or twice while you were ill. I doubt she remembers me, though. All of the Stand probably came to call during that terrible time.” 

These last remarks seemed to be directed towards Nadide, who had brought out a kettle to serve the two of them. A good Kadehirden woman, she was willing to play maidservant rather than let their guest go thirsty. 

Ozal would have chosen the latter for Demir. 

“Do you remember Demir, Nadide?” he asked. 

She only glanced up at those last words. Evidently her mind was elsewhere. He did not blame her. “Mm?” she said. “Oh, yes. He was kind to call.” 

It seemed a rote answer to Ozal, but he saw how Demir’s cheeks reddened. No sooner had Nadide taken her exit than Demir leaned closer to ask. “Bajedi. Your sister. How old is your lovely sister?” 

“Twenty five.” 

Demir frowned, clearly unhappy with the answer. “She is rather old to have never married.” 

“And you are rather junior to inquire about her,” Ozal said, with a slight rise of his eyebrows. 

“Apologies, bajedi,” Demir had only gone redder. “Of course, you are right. No doubt you would like to see her married to a man of rank. A kivshah, probably, based on the way things are going.”

Ozal was careful to not show his disdain for that particular option. “My father had wanted her to marry a minister, but he unfortunately passed away before he could find a suitable match. Now the task falls to me.” 

“Yes, of course.” Demir cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I knew she was unmarried, and when you wrote --” 

“The next time you have courtship in mind, send your mother or a sister first instead. A woman should speak with another woman first about marriage. No, I wanted to ask you about Tolga bajedi.” 

“Tol -- you mean the Imperial Magician, bajedi?”’

Demir’s face had gone just slightly paler. Ozal took a long sip of his tea before responding. All the better to let the other man sweat in the impropriety of what he had just said. “Of course. Old habits. He did not have that title before I --” He knew he should end that sentence with a pleasant lie, but he could not force one from his mouth. 

_Before someone at the Stand tried to murder me._

He had to know why. And he suspected Demir might know more than he realized.

The man nodded, his expression one of deepest sympathy. “The Emperor’s selection took place a week or so later. Everyone was still talking about what had happened to you and Eryadin then.”

“Were they talking about it during the nomination?” 

“Ah. I see now why you wanted to talk with me. I did take the votes. It was an honor, of course. I was only made a full magician recently --” 

That was obvious, but Ozal bit down on that particular observation. “I am curious to hear your thoughts on how it went,” he said instead. 

“In these troubled times, the nomination of the Imperial Magician is a very serious duty for a member of the Stand. The Emperor is all that stands between us and aggression from our borders and strife from within.” 

Ozal would need more specific information than that. “Since I have recovered, I have been hearing so much about the Vaspahanians --” 

“The shadow take them!” Demir said at once. “Excuse my language, bajedi, but they threaten us in our own waters and yet still we do nothing -- you should have heard what people said about them during the nomination.”

“What kind of things did they say?” 

All at once, Demir realized the path his mouth had led him down. “The votes are supposed to be private,” he demurred. 

“I am not interested in knowing who backed who,” Ozal said. “Those divisions don’t matter anymore. But I am curious, what people said in general. I was discussing the nomination with Eryadin bajedi at the time, and had things gone differently, you would have called upon me here to record my thoughts.” 

“Yes, that is true,” Demir nodded. He paused. Ozal waited. Finally, he added, “And I suppose it could be said that actually you have a special right to know, considering how often your name was mentioned. Along with Eryadin bajedi, of course.” 

This whole farce might have prove useful after all. Ozal raised a curious eyebrow, feigning surprise. “People said this during their votes?” 

“You might be surprised how much people talk when it comes time to record their vote.” Ozal knew this fact well; he wouldn’t have asked after Demir if he didn’t. “More than a few said that what happened to you and the ambassador swayed their vote.” 

“But the nomination could not have happened so long afterwards. Did anyone know --” 

“It was only a rumor at the time, of course, but everyone thought it was like the Vaspahanians.” 

It was still only a rumor now, Ozal wanted to point out. A rumor whose source he knew, thanks to the physician. And now whose purpose he knew as well. 

“For the men who mentioned it, Tolga bajedi must have been the most obvious choice,” he said mildly, albeit with some effort. “He was known to want to deal harshly with them.” 

He should have known. An unlikely candidate, made suddenly palatable by a shocking attack on two magicians of the Stand. Ozal remembered Alev janum and the white cloth of her veil. He had wanted to think of her as an aberration, the exception. A woman gone mad with grief. 

But while he had languished away, the whole Stand had shared in her madness. 

Including, apparently, Demir, who nodded with enthusiasm. “Surely you must agree?” he asked. “Ozal bajedi, you have lost so much. Your mentor is dead. You are in the prime of your life and yet must walk with a cane. And if something had happened to you, your poor unmarried sister and Mucevhed --” 

“Yes, thank you, you've made your point,” Ozal cut in sharply.

Demir did not seem particularly dissuaded. Perhaps he thought he had been doing Ozal a favor by explaining his own life circumstances to him. “I just thought -- well, I thought that in all the Stand, surely there was no one who would support our Imperial Magician as much as you.” 

“All members of the Stand must support the Imperial Magician,” Ozal replied stiffly. Demir waited, as if expecting more. Perhaps a declaration that he would pray tonight for the Shadow to fall on Vaspahan, or go tomorrow to kneel in front of the god-trees and swear an oath of allegiance to Tolga. 

Ozal stayed quiet.

“Have you had a chance to speak with the Imperial Magician in private, at least?” Demir finally asked. “Surely he has called on you since you have recovered. He must be very interested to see what you have to say.” 

Privately, Ozal wondered what Tolga would think of the accusations he could lay at his feet. Out loud, he objected, “He is such a busy man. The Empire looks to him for so much. It must take weeks to get an audience.” 

“Your circumstances are quite extraordinary,” Demir responded at once. “I am sure if you say that you desire an audience, he will do everything in his power to see you.” 

Ozal had told his sister he would rest when he found answers. 

Perhaps an audience with the Imperial Magician would help him honor that promise. 

The corner of Ozal’s mouths lifted in a hungry approximation of a smile. “I will make sure to send him a message. Thank you, Demir, for the encouragement.”

 

 

Kadim left in the afternoon, and returned not too long after accompanied by a man in a well-tailored robe. Ahmad watched them from the top of the staircase.

“Is that the Imperial Magician?” he asked Mahir under his breath.

“No, he's too important to come himself,” Mahir whispered back. “But the man he is sent is of high rank. Whatever response he is giving our host, it is clearly sent with respect.”

Ahmad turned to give him a curious look. “What do you think of the Imperial Magician?” 

Mahir’s ears reddened at the question. Ahmad likely was not aware, but it was a dangerous question. Switching to Wakamiri and lowering his voice even further, he answered, “He is a very important man that Ozal bajedi appears not to trust at all.” 

Ahmad shook his head, as if Mahir had misheard. “No, what do _you_ think? Do you know the man?” 

“I --” Mahir stumbled. He hadn't been expecting that question. “I know him.” His former master had always been adamant that Mahir remember details about his guest and, at least before the selection, Tolga bajedi had been a close friend of Savaner. Mahir had gotten too many bruises on account of his failure to remember these little details not to remember, say, that Tolga preferred green olives to black and disliked music being played while he talked with Savaner. But that was hardly the same as having an opinion. Savaner had never asked him to do that. 

Ahmad, perhaps sensing Mahir’s confusion, asked a simpler question. “Is he a good magician?” 

“I suppose so.” His former master would not have bothered spending time with a magician whose talents he did not respect. 

“He seems important. So that should mean he is very talented, right?” 

“That isn’t quite how the Stand’s nomination process works --” Mahir started. Ahmad’s brows were furrowed in concentration, and he seemed to be listening very intensely. A thought occurred to Mahir. “It is not like you, to care about the politics of the Stand like this.” 

“I don’t. I just want to know if this man has the same kind of magic I felt earlier.” 

The rotten magic. Privately, Mahir had his doubts. Tolga bajedi was a talented enough magician, but the magic that Ahmad had described was something more than that. It required a kind of talent that the Stand had not seen in generations. But he knew that it would be pointless to tell Ahmad this. Instead, Mahir said, “Ahmad, please, be careful.” 

Ahmad raised an eyebrow at that, but any question he might have asked was cut off by Ozal calling his name. Without either of them noticing, their host had made his way to the bottom of the stairs. The messenger appeared to have left. Ahmad walked down the stairs quickly, while Mahir followed at a dutiful distance. 

“There you are,” Ozal said. “I wanted to let you know that I have an audience with the Imperial Magician tomorrow. It is something of a miracle that he was able to meet me so quickly, usually it can take weeks, if not months --” 

“I want to come too,” Ahmad said at once. 

Ozal frowned. With a sigh halfway between resignation and pity, he explained, “I understand that you might want to petition the Stand to reconsider the results of your admission. But Tolga bajedi is not the right man to ask. He is concerned with matters of empire. Since the education of young magicians is the Stand’s responsibility, the question falls to the Sheikh of the Magicians. As our current sheikh has seen many years, he does not respond to many petitions these days.” 

Ahmad blinked and then shook his head. “What? No. I don’t care about that. I saw something strange at the Stand, and visiting the Imperial Magician maybe will help.” 

It was a treacherous thought and he would never have breathed a word of it to Ahmad, but Mahir half-hoped that Ozal would refuse his request. Ozal and the Imperial Magician both had heads for politics and schemes; Ahmad did not. He was walking into a delicate situation about which he knew or cared little. But Ozal only shrugged. “I suppose there is no harm in it.” 

And then the matter was settled. 

When they had retired to their room, Ahmad wrapped an arm around Mahir to draw him closer. “You worry about me too much,” he said, his breath warm and soft against Mahir’s cheek. 

“You don’t worry enough,” he sighed. Ahmad hummed in quiet skepticism of that remarked. Mahir leaned back into his touch, tried to calm his racing thoughts. It was easy with Ahmad to believe even impossible things. But Kadehir had its own dangers, and Mahir had to stay ready for them. After a minute, he said, “You asked me earlier what I thought of Tolga bajedi.” 

“What do you think?” 

Mahir swallowed heavily. “He was an ambitious man when my former master knew him. And now it seems he has gotten everything he wanted. He might be dangerous if he feels that his position is threatened. You should be careful what you say around him.” 

“I will,” Ahmad said, very seriously, and Mahir could only hope he remembered that promise tomorrow.


	8. When A Man Comes To Call

The next morning, Ozal and Ahmad departed for the Palace. It felt strange for two magicians to venture out alone again, but it could not be helped. Until Ahmad passed the exam it would be wise not to call too much official attention to the Mucevhed in his company and, while Ozal would have preferred to take Kadim, it made him uneasy to leave his sister alone at home.

For her part, Nadide appeared indifferent to this sacrifice. "Do you really intend to accuse the Imperial Magician?" she had asked privately this morning, the thin line of her mouth speaking volumes about her own thoughts on the matter. 

"Accuse is a strong word,” Ozal said, his tone reassuring but firm. “But I must learn the truth. Consider everything I have learned --"

She'd only sighed. "I have told you, he has been nothing but helpful to me during these past few months. But whatever you have learned, please just remember that this is the man who you must ask for another post once you have recovered.”

It had never occurred to him that with everything happening, _that_ was the issue that would worry his sister the most. “The truth of who cursed me should matter more than my salary,” he’d responded coldly. 

Such a statement had seemed so simple, so self-obviously true in the morning. 

But some of Ozal’s convictions faded as he and Ahmad walked in the shadows of the walls of the Imperial Palace, heading towards the inner room where Tolga had told them to meet. 

There was one fact about the Imperial Palace that would be impossible for any visitor not to notice: it was massive. While the Stand showcased the power of magic to remake the world, the Imperial Palace stood as a testimony to the power of the Emperor to keep the world the way it was. In size and splendor, it had no rival anywhere in Kadehir -- indeed, nowhere on the entire continent. 

Ozal had always known this. He had grown up knowing this. What he had failed to appreciate until just now, however, was that this meant visitors had to walk rather far to get anywhere at all.

After the third time Ozal had to stop for breath, leaning hard against his cane, Ahmad had a suggestion. "Perhaps Tolga bajedi can come see you." 

"He's an important man to be at my beck and call." Ozal huffed. He tried to sound more relaxed and in less pain than he felt, even though under his breath he cursed why any architect had thought any hallway needed to be so damn long. 

"Then he's an important man to accuse." 

Ahmad said it casually enough, but Ozal still cast him a sideways glance. “I didn’t expect to hear my sister’s warning coming from your mouth.” 

Ahmad only shrugged. "Not just Nadide janum." 

Ozal wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't matter. His answer was the same. "Whatever title he has now, Tolga bajedi cannot change the truth of who attacked me.” 

It had been easier to believe his words in the morning, when his lungs had not been on fire from a walk whose distance he had never had to take note of before. After all, a treacherous voice reminded him, his family depended on him. Kadim and Nadide could not afford for him to be reckless. Particularly not, since -- whatever comforting words he might say around them -- Ozal had started to consider the very real possibility that he would not recover more than he already had.

But Ozal kept those thoughts to himself; Ahmad, on the other hand, wore his skepticism openly. “Is that how things are done here in Kadehir?” 

Not too long ago -- or maybe a few months ago, since he had lost time to the curse -- Ozal would have dismissed that question out of hand. The Stand was the oldest body in Kadehir, and while its members were not above a certain level of base politics, it was at its heart an organization comprised of decent men who stood united in the defense of magic and Kadehir. 

But one of those very same men had attacked Ozal and killed his mentor. Would the Stand really unite against one of its own?

"I suppose I'll have to talk with the Imperial Magician to find out," Ozal responded grimly, hoping to quiet both Ahmad’s doubts and his own.

 

 

Mahir would have preferred not to have been left alone, but he could not be surprised. Kadehir had never been a place where what he wanted made much difference. 

Still, though, it made him restless to sit in Ahmad's room and do nothing. It was almost a relief when Nadide knocked on the door. 

"A suitor has come to call," she announced, still half-turned towards the entrance, her attention barely directed at him. Mahir hesitated; he could not imagine what that statement had to do with him. Nadide sighed and turned to face him, clearly wishing she did not have to spell out her request so plainly. “Can you prepare tea? I would not normally ask a guest's Mucevhed to do something so simple, but Kadim is otherwise occupied just keeping the man from wandering through the halls."

"A man has come to call?" Mahir asked sharply, before remembering that he was not talking to Ahmad and his commentary was probably best kept to himself. 

Nadide's eyebrows arched in surprise only slightly. "Yes," she said, the corner of her mouth raising into something too sharp to be a smile. "A man of good sense would have sent a female relative to inquire about me. A man of good breeding would have left when he discovered no man home to greet him. Our guest appears to be neither. Now, can you make the tea?" 

Mahir nodded without saying a word. He watched Nadide turn to walk back down the stairs and, for one brief moment, wondered if her would-be suitor was ready for who he was about to meet.

 

 

Tolga bajedi hosted them in one of the inner-mosty rooms of the Palace. It was lavishly but tastefully decorated, the kind of room meant to intimidate a guest into his best behavior. And yet in total defiance of custom, Tolga bajedi stood when they entered as if he were their guest and not the other way around. "Ozal bajedi! I have been waiting to see you." He turned to Ahmad, "Who is this?" 

"The man who cured me, a promising magician from the province of Wakamir named Ahmad." Ozal waited half a second for Ahmad to introduce himself further, but the man only stared at the Imperial Magician. He had the slightest frown on his face, as if Tolga bajedi was a puzzle he needed to solve.

The silence dragged on.

It was not the first impression Ozal had hoped Ahmad would make.

"Yes," Tolga finally gave a small cough. "The foreign magician. I heard about his trial at the Stand -- a rather unconventional candidate, everyone said. Perhaps with more training and guidance, next time will go better."

Ahmad made only the smallest noise of acknowledgement. Ozal wasn't sure why, but he seemed disappointed. Perhaps the other man had solved the puzzle and found the answer unsatisfactory. Whatever the reason, it was fortunate for them both that Tolga bajedi ignored his slight. Instead, he turned to Ozal. "There is much for us to talk about. But if you had been hoping for better news on the pension, I am sorry to report that I can only report to you what I have already told your sister and uncle. But now that you appear recovered, there is much that occupy a man of your rank. And after what the Vaspahanians did to you and Eryadin bajedi, I am sure you cannot wait to do something yourself." 

There was a terrible sincerity in his every word. Ozal scanned his features, searching for the slightest tell that might give away the truth. 

He saw nothing.

"Thank you, bajediyan. But actually -- I had hoped to speak with you about a different matter at the moment."

"Is that so?"

Ozal considered his next words carefully. "I had heard that your own physician examined me, when I was -- ill." 

"When you were poisoned," Tolga bajedi corrected generously. 

"He said you were the first one to mention the possibility of poison to him." 

Tolga bajedi laughed faintly, as if Ozal had said something amusing. "I was! It was rather an impressive suggestion, was it not?" 

Ozal's mouth went dry. He forced himself to say, slowly and carefully, "Impressive in what way, bajediyan?"

"Well, no one could make any sense of it. But if you remember, during the Summer War the army was constantly encountering poisons it had never seen before. Of course, your symptoms weren’t the same -- no one had ever seen anything like what happened to you -- but considering you and Eryadin had been in contact with the Vaspahanians...well, the truth was obvious once pointed out.” He sighed, added wistfully, “I only wish I’d been the one to think of the explanation first.” 

"To think of it first?" Ozal repeated, his voice coming out half-strangled. He barely trusted his own ears that he had heard Tolga correctly. With some effort, he regained control of his voice. "You mean it was not your idea?" 

Tolga looked surprised. "Oh, not at all. I was talking with Savaner kishah about your case. He was the first one to propose that it might be a Vaspahanian poison." 

"Savaner kishah," he echoed in disbelief. Ozal thought he might as well be one of those exotic birds some merchants kept as pets, because right now his mind seemed capable of nothing else except repeating what he heard. 

It was only a half second later that he realized Ahmad had also repeated the name, although he did not have the faintest clue why the name would mean anything to the foreign magician. Ozal couldn’t recall ever mentioning the man to him before. 

"You seem surprised," Tolga bajedi responded, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

"I had no idea he took an interest in my case," Ozal confessed. "I've never met the man."

He had been willing to believe that Tolga bajedi had schemed to curse Eryadin bajedi and Ozal and cast the blame on the Vaspahanians in order to be named the Imperial Magician. But what gain could there possibly be for Savaner kishah in attacking two other members of the Stand? He was a hero in Kadehir and had been for years; if he’d so desired, he could have easily been named Imperial Magician without resorting to foul play.

"An interest!" Tolga repeated with a laugh. "Of course he took an interest. The whole Stand did. But for Savaner kishah, it was different. It was personal for him, I think. He wanted to know everything about the case -- I even told him that you wrote to me yesterday. I think he suspected Vaspahanian involvement from the beginning." 

"It seems a little odd that he suspected foreign influence so early," Ozal hesitated. Was this the time to air his suspicions? Tolga bajedi originally came from the ranks of the military, just like Savaner kishah. And Ozal still was at a loss to explain _why_ Savaner kishah would have struck him and his mentor. 

While Ozal wrestled with these concerns, Ahmad appeared untroubled. When no one spoke for a moment, he gave a dismissive huff. "Savaner kishah is a bad man. I do not trust him."

"A bad man?" Tolga sputtered in disbelief as Ozal's heart sank. "What do you know about Savaner kishah?" Ahmad opened his mouth to answer, but Tolga bajedi continued, "The man is a hero! He won one of the most important battles of the Summer War, and in the process became the first adult magician discovered in Stand history. I can't imagine there’s anyone in Kadehir who doesn't admire him." 

Ahmad's gaze remained cold throughout the speech. "Of course a man like him is admired here."

It did not sound like a compliment, but Ozal did not need it to be. "Yes, there is no doubt, Kadehir owes him much,” he said quickly, his tone conciliatory. “But still, I am confused. He is no doubt quite the busy man to take such an interest. And to so quickly identify the Vaspahanians --” 

Tolga waved his hand dismissively, his annoyance visible. "The ambassador and his secretary are found attacked by unknown means in the heart of the Stand itself. Of course it was only a matter of time before the Vaspahanians were found to be at fault.” 

"But if there was some other explanation --"

Tolga's eyebrows raised high enough that they almost met the fabric of his turban. "Some other explanation? What are you suggesting? Do you know something about what happened to you that no one else does?" 

Ozal hesitated. It was true that he had Ahmad’s testimony that he had been cursed and not poisoned. But the way that Tolga bajedi still seethed at Ahmad’s remarks, it might not be wise to mention that information right at the moment. 

"No, not exactly," he finally admitted. "But I know -- knew Eryadin bajedi. He was a cautious man, and I don't think he would want us to be reckless in our pursuit of his killer. Or killers, as the case may be." 

Tolga bajedi sighed. For some reason, he seemed hesitant. And then, "I know he was your mentor, and this may be difficult to hear. But Ozal, you must consider the possibility that it was Eryadin’s caution that got him killed." 

His cautious approach with the Vaspahan Empire, no doubt. It had not always been popular when he was alive -- particularly not with the likes of Tolga bajedi or Savaner kishah. Of course. Ozal’s breath rattled in his chest. “Yes, bajediyan," he forced out. It was very possible that the other man was right, although not for the reasons he imagined.

"Is that all you wanted to know?" Tolga said. "Because if you don't have any other questions, I had hoped to discuss the matter of your post." 

Ozal forced his mouth to form something that might be called a smile. "Of course," he said. "You've been very helpful." 

More helpful than Ozal had expected. But still it was not enough. And Ozal knew that it would not be enough, not until he could gather more evidence than just the testimony of a foreign magician. 

 

 

It took a few minutes for Mahir to boil water and prepare the tea. He brewed it strong, the way they liked it in Wakamir. He'd never had to brew tea in Kadehir before; his former master had had servants for those kinds of tasks. Somehow, Mahir doubted that even if he explained himself, Nadide would have much sympathy. She’d been accustomed to servants at one point too. 

When the tea was ready, Mahir placed the earthen cups on a large wooden tray and carried it out to the main room. Kadim stood near the doorway, surveying the scene with an uncharacteristically visible unease. Nadide sat in the middle of the room, across from a man whose back was to Mahir. By the white cloth of his turban, he was clearly a magician. And yet it was odd, because Mahir could spot no sign of a third Mucevhed in the room. In fact, the more he stared at the man, the more even the broad outlines of his shoulders seemed familiar -- 

“I assure you, janum, I do not want to impose, so if you would like,” the man started. 

He did not get a chance to complete the offer. Instead, he was distracted by the loud noise made by the tray slipping from Mahir’s hand and the tea set crashing against the floor. 

Mahir recognized that voice. He knew this man. 

The commotion had attracted the attention of everyone in the room. Mahir bent down hurriedly, reaching for the shattered remains of the earthenware around him and trying to keep his face hidden. 

“Apologies janum,” he muttered over and over to himself, but it was not Nadide who ultimately responded. 

"Stop," the man commanded, and Mahir obeyed.

It had been almost three years since Savaner kishah had sold him to a caravan destined for the edge of the empire, but Mahir still found it hard to disobey his former master.

"You," Savaner said in a different tone, and Mahir was too frightened to look up but he guessed from the inflection that his attention had turned to Kadim. "Pick up this mess."

Mahir saw Kadim bend down in front of him to obey. Fear rooted him to the ground; he wasn't sure he could move if he wanted to.

"Kishah." There was a dangerous tone in Nadide's voice, but Mahir doubted whether her fangs were half as sharp as Savaner's. "Are you usually in the habit of directing other men's Mucevheden?" 

_She doesn't know,_ Mahir thought all at once. Of course. He was being stupid. How could Nadide have known that Mahir belonged to Savaner kishah?

Had belonged. He swallowed and tried to force himself to remember that.

“This one did belong to me, once.” Savaner answered offhandedly. And then his attention was back, unfortunately, on Mahir. “And where have you been, little one?” 

There was a twisting sweetness to his voice, one Mahir had come to know well. It was a voice that said Mahir might still please him if he acted well, but that his master's patience was being sorely tested. 

"Wakamir, bajedi," Mahir answered. It only occurred to him after the words had left his mouth that he could have lied, probably should have. But he had years of experience knowing what happened after Savaner used that tone. His back tensed in expectation of a blow.

"Enough of this," Nadide cried out. There was venom in her voice as she continued, “Savaner kishah, perhaps you have forgotten, but this is my brother’s house, not your own. Now, Mahir. Go back to the kitchen.”

Mahir watched Savaner kishah turn back around to face Nadide. He let out a sigh of relief; that made it easier to obey Nadide’s command. From the floor, he bowed shallowly and then hastily retreated to the kitchen. 

Kadim was already there, worrying over the remains he had collected of the tea set. The glance he gave Mahir as he entered was withering. "What was that about? I thought you were better trained than that." 

Mahir stopped. Of course, he knew distantly that his action had brought shame upon his master’s hosts. But really, couldn’t the other Mucevheden understand _why_? 

_He's spoiled,_ Mahir thought bitterly. Evidently Kadim had no idea what it was like to fear the man the Stand had bound you to for life. 

But he was too tired for jealousy. It occurred to him that for the first time in years, Ahmad was not here to comfort him. He’d gotten used to Ahmad’s presence. Stupid of him, really. 

Now all Mahir could do was sit down against the wall and hold his head in his hands. “I just need to rest here until my master returns,” he muttered. 

 

 

"My apologies, janum. That was not how I wanted this conversation to start." The kishah gave a smile that could be generously described as apologetic as he sat back down. 

Nadide regarded him coldly. He was a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that glittered with amusement to a joke that only he seemed to know. Savaner had come to call dressed the part of a kishah, down even to the saber he wore at his side. Nadide had not met that many soldiers in her life, and she wondered if the display was meant to impress her, intimidate her, or both. 

Nadide kept her head held high. She would be neither. 

"What are you here for, kishah?" she asked, letting her frustration bite into every word. 

Savaner kishah raised his eyebrows in a silent protest of innocence. "I'm not sure what you mean, janum. I already told you that a friend of mine mentioned he had heard your brother was looking to find you a suitable husband." 

"How strange, then, that you do not simply return when Ozal is available to greet you." 

Savaner continued as if she had not spoken. "I myself have been too long a bachelor. I have come to believe it is not proper for a man of my rank. After all, think about the goddess to whom I pledged. Do you know that all magicians who wish to join the Stand must ask a blessing from one of the god-trees?”

“Considering that the men in my family can trace their magical lineage back to the very founding of Kadehir, yes, I am aware.” Nadide answered, her eyes watching his features carefully. She saw the way his smile hesitated, if only for a moment. 

It was a well-known -- if rarely discussed -- fact in Kadehir that Savaner kishah was the first magician in his family. Nadide could have asked for more information about his lineage; from the dark look in his eyes, he was not eager to discuss the matter. 

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. It took great self-control not to smile too widely. 

“Of course, janum,” Savaner said, with a noise like he was clearing something from his throat. “Then, I take it then you know why so many soldiers like myself pledge to the Maiden?” 

Nadide did not have the slightest idea. She hesitated. “I suppose the Maiden’s virtue is the truth. And my father always said the truth was a delicate thing that needed to be protected.” 

There was something too sharp in the glint in Savaner kishah’s eyes at that response. “Your father was a wise man, then. But no. They tell you in training that a soldier lives to protect his homeland, and who better represents our lands than the Maiden herself, with her youthful bounty and sweet promise? How can I say that I pledge myself to my empire, to our Gods, and then not desire a maiden of my own?” 

“You are one of the most eligible bachelors in Kadehir,” Nadide demurred. Savaner dipped his head in acknowledgment. Good; let him think it a compliment. “Which is why I am so surprised about your change of heart on the subject of marriage. After all, not so long ago, I wrote to the sisters and wives of some of your compatriots, and not a one of them had heard you breathe a word of interest in marriage.” 

Confusion and annoyance flashed briefly across his face, although he did an admirable job of pretending they had not. “A man can change his opinions --” 

“I wrote to them about other subjects too,” Nadide said, a smile still frozen on her face, the edges sharp enough that she wondered if they would cut her cheeks. “As you can imagine, I was also rather interested in the question of why you did not attend Eryadin bajedi’s funeral or come to call on me when my brother lay for months so close to death.” 

She waited half a moment. Perhaps she half-hoped he would grovel, beg for forgiveness.

But maybe they both knew it was too late for that. 

His expression was, instead, impassive. But there was something cold and calculating behind the black of his eyes. Let him calculate. Nadide had had plenty of time to do the same. 

"My apologies, janum,” he said, utterly without emotion. “It must have been a very difficult time for you." 

“You can imagine the surprise in the letters I received back when I mentioned this. Each told me of the interest you had taken in my brother’s case -- an interest that seemed to be of common knowledge to everyone but me.” 

Her anger had fed on itself, had grown larger and larger. But whatever Savaner kishah felt, he kept well-hidden. When she paused, he only sighed. "Of course. I always meant to call on you -- it seems your brother recovered before I had my chance." 

A well-rehearsed answer. Nadide did not believe a word of it. "One of the women I wrote to did say something that caught my attention. She said you must have been quite preoccupied, as it seemed your Mucevhed had fallen ill.” 

Nadide had always kept her suspicions to herself. Her brother, she knew, was busy asking questions in the ears of men who were unlikely to ever listen to her. She’d been content to see where that would take him. 

But she’d been convinced of the truth the moment Savaner kishah had arrived on the doorstep.

Alone. 

“Your Mucevhed -- he’s still too frail to leave the house, isn’t he?” she asked. 

For a moment, it was as if a mask had slipped from Savaner kishah's face and the expression underneath was an ugly, hateful thing. But it appeared so briefly she might have imagined it, and then his expression quickly returned to one of indifference. "Your concern is of course appreciated, janum. But Cahit is frail and has been for some time. It is not something you should worry about." 

“You might have excused me if I wondered why you would rather play nursemaid to your Mucevhed than attend the funeral of a prominent member of the Stand like Eryadin bajedi. But I suppose it would be rather inconvenient for people to wonder what large, complex spell you did at the time he and my brother were stricken. Whatever it was, it apparently so drained your Mucevhed that even months later he cannot go on social calls with you.” 

There was no hiding it now. Anger burned deep in Savaner kishah's eyes and Nadide felt a grim satisfaction at being the reason why.

His hand fell almost idly into his lap, inched closer to the scabbard around his waist. Nadide was aware very suddenly that she was in the presence of a powerful magician, a soldier, and a murderer. 

And she didn't even have enough control of magic to knock over a candlestick. 

Still, she held her head high. She was a daughter of Kadehir; she would not flinch. 

Savaner kishah's hand stopped. His upper lip curled. "I was under the impression that when a suitor would come to call, a woman would try to impress him with her modesty and education. And yet you have only talked and talked. Most unbecoming." 

"Am I boring you, kishah? Then let me be direct. I don't believe you ever seriously entertained the thought of marriage. You waited until my brother left to call on me, no doubt hoping that with no man in the house to stop you there would be no one to stop you from looking around for evidence of what caused my brother’s recovery. Well, as I can tell you that as long as I live and breath, you will not see anything in this house beyond the four walls of this room. Now, if you are satisfied, you can take your leave.” 

Savaner kishah stood up all at once. Nadide started but remained sitting, forcing her back straight as an arrow.

After a moment's hesitation, the man smiled. It was a thin, cruel smile. 

"Perhaps I should go. What a pity. I'll have to let my friends know I won't be courting Ozal's sister after all." Nadide knew those words should be a relief, but she could hear the gloating in Savaner’s voice. “It’s tragic, after all. Even though her brother has miraculously recovered, her mind is still wrecked with grief. She’s gone mad. Lost touch with reality, speaks of strange fantasies.” 

With a satisfied air, he gave a small bow and turned towards the door. 

“Before you go,” she called out. It was an effort to not let her voice shake, either from disbelief or anger she wasn’t sure. But she was sure of one thing. 

She wanted to hurt this man. 

Savaner kishah turned back, one eyebrow raised. “Before you go,” she continued. “I want you to know. The man who cured my brother -- his Mucevhed took no time at all to recover from the spell he used. He is the better magician.” 

Nadide only caught the briefest flash of anger and surprise before Savaner turned back towards the door. But it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks a major milestone for me and this story. It was right after I finished this chapter in my very first draft that I turned my attention back towards editing and polishing the beginning chapters enough to where I could feel confident posting them to AO3. And now something like a year later, this chapter is finally ready to be published! So to everyone who has read up until this point, thank you for sticking with the story. The story's changed a lot since its initial draft (which was a measly 15K...how it almost doubled in size in the editing process, I have no idea) but the feedback I've gotten (both positive and negative) through comments has been really wonderful and helpful and I absolutely cannot thank you guys enough. 
> 
> The next few chapters might be a little slower to be published than the roughly once-a-month schedule I've been aiming for. The middle section of the story has proven to need even more extensive rewriting than the first third, but hopefully the extra editing will pay off.
> 
> As always please let me know if anything isn't clear / what you guys think. These characters and plots have lived in my head for so long that sometimes it can be hard to remember what has gotten to the page and what hasn't. I hope you enjoy and thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time ever posting fiction with original characters in a public forum, so I would love to hear any and all feedback! Comments are greatly appreciated and if you prefer tumblr, my ask is always open at http://desastrista.tumblr.com/ask.


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